


Drive.

by threehoundsonyellowfield



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Army, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Parents, Alternate Universe - Politics, F/M, Falling In Love, Gay Character, Light Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Military Background, Military Backstory, Modern Westeros, Mother-Son Relationship, Motherhood, Obsessive Behavior, POV Loras Tyrell, POV Sandor Clegane, POV Sansa Stark, Political Alliances, Post-Divorce, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, Revenge, Sandor Clegane Swears, Single Parent Sansa, Uber, Unrequited Love, Unrequited Lust, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2019-10-31 12:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17849822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threehoundsonyellowfield/pseuds/threehoundsonyellowfield
Summary: After her divorced from Loras Tyrell, Sansa Stark lived a happy but lonely life raising her three-year-old son.Struggling to make ends meet, she accepted a job in the Vale as Petyr Baelish's eccentric wife Lysa's  assistant.Meanwhile, Sandor Clegane was an ex-special forces operative turned mercenary with PTSD and guilt of his last mission failure that cost him his face and the lives of his team. In his spare time, Sandor was forced by Barristan Selmy to try driving Uber, and he started an odd friendship with Sansa and her son.Or was it just a friendship?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is an alternate universe, in modern setting.  
> i do not own the characters - they are all belong to Mr George RR Martin :)
> 
> In here, Sansa is 25 year-old, with a 3 year-old son from Loras Tyrell.  
> Sandor Clegane is 45-ish, Petyr Baelish is in his 50s, Lysa is in her early 50.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy this one, and i'm sorry if there's any misspelling as english is not my native language.  
> Do enjoy :)

**\---**

**SANSA**

 

“Mummy?”

 

Sansa peeked from the shower curtain and sees her three year-old son, Rory, stepped into the bathroom.

 

“Hi honey, I’ll be there soon, okay? Wait there, please,”

 

Rory stopped and waited patiently at the door sill, for his mother to rinse her long auburn hair in a rush and turn off the faucet. Sansa stepped out of the shower, toweling herself and wrapped her body with the grayish towel. She scoops her son from the floor and landed a kiss on his rosy cheek.

 

“You hungry, honey?”

 

‘’ungry!” her son chimed in.

 

Still wearing her towel and with her hair damp clinging to her scalp, Sansa opened the fridge and take out a pot of leftover soup from last night. She put Rory in his baby chair and started to heat up the soup. The leftover is not much, barely made to fill Rory’s cup, but it contained potatoes, leek, carrots and some beef. Enough to fill her son’s stomach tonight.

 

As she helped her toddler son to his soup—making sure it is in the right temperature—she smiled at him, stroking his auburn locks. She will need to do grocery shopping tomorrow, she sighed. Rory has learned to use the spoon to feed himself, so after the toddler start to eat, she reached for her purse. Her money is now down to twenty dollars and some coins. She sighed again.

 

Living in the Reach has been difficult; the rent is expensive and although Rory’s father had been taking care of them, Sansa feels she will need to look for work if she wants to truly free of Loras’ family. Mrs Tyrell—Loras’ grandmother and matriarch of the powerful family—had let her knew that if she chose to keep Rory she will need to managed how ends meet herself. The Tyrells won’t let her have a penny, since she signed a prenuptial agreement before her wedding to Loras. Not that it mattered; she married the man for love, not money.

 

 _“_ Give Rory to Loras and let his father raised his son as the family heir, and we will let you walk away with one million dollar, right now. You will find another one millioin next year, and the following year, until Rory is twenty one year-old _,”_ the old lady had said before the divorce was finalized. “Or, you may bring Rory and let Loras has parental visit every now and then, but we will give you naught.”

 

Sansa remembered every words the matriarch had been said. Every threat, every mock. _She offered me to give up Rory for twenty one million dollars_ , she thought bitterly, looking at her son enjoying his supper. _And I choose my son._ Here they are now, she trying to put food on the table while working part time and raising her son as single parent. After living a life like lady most of her life, the reality hits her hard. She had come from a wealthy family herself, but she had left them behind in the north to come to the Reach with Loras. Ever since her parents died some time again, she understand her brothers—Robb and Jon—have run their family business and supporting their younger siblings, Arya away in Braavos (and she knew studying abroad is not cheap), Bran and Rickon still in high school. She has taken no part in the family business, so she knew it is very out of place for her to ask her brothers for help. They will gladly help her; of course, she has no doubt about it. She just doesn’t feel comfortable nagging them.

 

So Sansa took her maiden last name again, moved out the Tyrell mansion with Rory (at that time still a one year old infant), and rent a small apartment she can afford. Loras has been sending them money behind his grandmother’s back (or within her acknowledgement, Sansa does not care) but the money is not much. It keeps them going to buy food and pay rent, but a modest one. And she knew she will need to pay for Rory’s daycare and tuition fees if she ever go back to work full time, so she saves half of the money Loras sent. It left them little--combined with her salary and tips from waiting tables.

 

“Look, Mommy.” Rory pointed his wet finger to the television. “Daddy,” It was news about the Tyrell family. Loras’s handsome face sprung onto the screen, talking about the company’s newest addition to biogenetic division or something. Sansa bit the sadness away that crept every time she saw her ex-husband’s face. They have been divorced for two years now. At least the news is not about Loras’s new girlfriend, who comes up frequently, more frequent than Loras using his parental visit to see Rory.

 

“Finish your soup, darling, and then we go to sleep.” She said, turning off the tv.

 

\--

After dropping Rory at Mrs Mordane’s—her kind neighbor whom always happy to take care of Rory—Sansa rushed to the bus stop, her shopping list at hand. There will be not much to buy, since she only has twenty dollars and almost none in her bank account. Loras usually wired them money at the end of the month, and it will be a week away before he sends any money. Today is her day off and she will need to look for more better paying job after she completes her grocery shopping.

 

 _Gods, I really do need to work full time if I want to send Rory to the best school,_ she thought worryingly. She counted how much money she need to safe for her son’s tuition, when she remembered why she enlist the kind Mrs Mordane’s help—because she cannot even afford daycare for Rory, that’s why she still work part time. Mrs Mordane cannot watch Rory 8 hours a day for five days a week, and hiring babysitter is too expensive. _Everyhing in this city is too expensive_ , she thought sadly.

 

She is lost in thoughts as she walked aimlessly among the shelves of cereal, when a familiar voice called to her.

 

“Sansa! Sansa Tyrell?”

 

She almost forgot that once in her life she was Sansa Tyrell.

 

“It is Sansa Stark, again, now.” She smiled at the familiar face of Petyr Baelish—her parent’s friend from the past. They embraced. “Hello, Mr Baelish.”

 

“Well hello to you, dearest,” the man smiled broader as they let go of their embrace. “Please forgive this old man’s memory… I forgot you no longer used your husband’s name.”

 

“Ex-husband, remember,” she chuckled.

 

He _tsk_ -ed and they resumed their walk strolling the cereal aisle. “What brings you here; you are far away from  Vale, Mr Baelish.”

 

“Ah, just some business. I will be back to Vale tomorrow. How are you, Sansa? Rory?”

 

“We are doing fine, thank you.”

 

Petyr Baelish stared at her longer than usual, and suddenly Sansa feel ashamed of her being. She has not brushed her hair when she left—she even carelessly put her long hair into a messy bun, and she wears her rag jeans and a simple blouse. She remembered it is the blue blouse with stains she forgot to wash days earlier. She has not put up any makeup, and not even using skincare since her divorce. She looks like a walking mess.

 

_Oh Gods.  
_

 

“Tell me, my dear, do you keep in contacts with your brothers?” finally Mr Baelish averted his eyes and locked it intently to some cereal box in the shelf.

 

“Uhh, not in a long time, to be honest. They are busy with work, and I am busy…” she trailed off weakly, not knowing how to make excuses whilst hoping Mr Baelish does not realize her situation. “How is aunt Lysa?” she remembered her mother’s younger sister who happened to be Petyr Baelish’s wife.

 

“Oh, she’s fine, she’s fine,” the older man smiled and wave dismissively, “by the way, Sansa, speaking of my wife...” he stared at her wandering, “she is looking for a personal assistant, you know? I wonder if you are interested to work for her. Vale is nearer to the North and you can come home anytime you want. But, I do understand if you are happy here and…”

 

“No, I do, of course, I think working for you and aunt Lysa will be wonderful,” she said hurriedly. “Well of course, if…”

 

“The salary is good, and we will prepare accommodation for you and Rory. If he needs daycare, I will personally look into it.” Her uncle-in-law cut her off. “I heard Lysa is willing to pay much more than usual,” he winked.

 

She could not believe her ears. Finally, her chance to get out from the Reach, and away from Loras’s family.

 

“I… I don’t know how to thank you…” she was out of breath. “Thank you, Mr Baelish. I really appreciate it…”

 

“No need, my dear. But I will insist that you can call me Uncle Petyr now. Don’t be too formal,”

 

The older man smelled of mint and something sweet like cinnamon. When Mr Baelish—Uncle Petyr—pulled her for a hug outside the supermarket, she shivered. She remembered why she never feels comfortable around him, but brushed it away. She needs this. She needs a decent well paid job to support Rory, to give her son a better life.

 

So she nodded and thanked Petyr Baelish once again when the man offered to arranged her and Rory’s one way tickets to the Vale.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a bit crowded with three POV, isn't it?  
> hope you do enjoy it ;D

**LORAS**

He woke up as soon as he heard the phone rings. _Bloody hell, who dares to call him at this hour?_ He grumbled and in the dark he reached out to his cellphone. _Grandmother. Well, of course._

“Yes, Gram?” he looked at the bedside clock. It’s three in the morning.

 

“Have you heard about your ex-wife?” _His grandmother known as The Queen of Thorns for naught._

 

“What about her?”

 

He heard his grandmother sighed, “Well, my dear, it seems your ex-wife flew out of town with your son.”

 

“Rory? Where?”

 

“Sometimes I wonder where did I do wrong when I raised you since the death of your dear mother,” the matriarch snapped. “Sansa has taken Rory to the Vale. The boarded their plane just this evening, don’t you at least have a say about this?”

 

Loras groaned, “Grams, just let them be. It’s not like they are leaving for Essos. Did you call me at this hour only to discuss this?”

 

“I will speak to you in morning, then. Tell Renly and your secretary to come to the office _separately_.” And with that Loras heard a _click._

“Who issit?” another voice groaned sleepily from under the blanket.

 

Loras rolled his eyes. “My grandmother,”

 

He bends and mussed at Renly Baratheon’s messy hair. Renly hmm-ed knowingly and snuggled to his arms. He smelled nice, even after steaming sex. Another hair—sandy blond hair—appeared from the same blanket, framing the lovely face of his secretary.

 

“Guess Mrs Tyrell wouldn’t be so happy to see me tomorrow,” she murmured.

 

“The old lady is not happy about lot of things,” Renly laughed. “What issit now?”

 

“Sansa took Rory and went to the Vale.”

 

“Oh?” both his lovers looked at him.

 “Its okay, I don’t mind. Sansa is a good mother to Rory.” Loras lay back on the bed, turning his back on Renly and Ros.

As a matter of fact, Sansa had text him earlier, informing him that she accepted a job in Vale, for her aunt Lysa Arryn. Loras give her permission to take Rory, since that woman really does take good care of their son. In fact, she is the better parent than he is. Loras never knew how to be a father—Mr Tyrell is an absent one, so he never had any father figure to look upon.

He text Sansa goodluck, and told her to send kisses for Rory, that he will think about them often but both of them knew it was only empty words. That’s why their marriage fell apart.

They used to be happy, blissfully in love, Loras reminisced. She used to laugh a lot, telling jokes, and when they were together they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. _Puppy love,_ his older sister Margaery used to tease them. _It won’t last,_ his grandmother had warned.

_And did it fall apart._

Was it started because of his flamboyant lifestyle? His swinger’s tendencies or was it his preference to his best friend Renly?

Loras remembered when Sansa stopped laughing. They never tell jokes again, they scarcely touch. Conceiving Rory was unexpected, it happened after a night out with Margaery and her husband, Gerold Hightower. They had not had sex for two whole months, with Loras slept in the guest room in their mansion, finding solace and fulfillment from Renly, Ros and other couple. Then wine got to their blood, some encouraging jests from Margaery, and Loras found himself stumbled into Sansa’s bedroom. It was rather awkward and he finished too soon.

They were considering to split when Sansa found out she was pregnant with Rory, and they decided to give the marriage another try. How wrong it was, and how miserable both of them trying to make the marriage work. They finally—officially—split when Rory was only a year old.

Ros caresses his bare back, sending chills from her cold hands. “We have another three hours before I go,” she whispered, heavy with lust. Renly already at her breast, his brown eyes locked into his. “Join us?”

\--

**SANSA**

The three hour flight from Reach to Vale was an easy one since Rory fell asleep as soon as they boarded the plane. To her surprised, uncle Petyr had booked them in business class. She has enough time and leg room to just relax and enjoying inflight movies, Rory sleeping peacefully on her arms. What a luxury it is, considering her financial situation these past years.

Loras sent her text wishing her good luck on her new job and wishing them well in the Vale. The memory flooded in when she looked through the plane’s window, Loras’s text left opened from her cellphone. This might be her last time being in the Reach. She doesn’t have any intention to come back, though when Rory grow up he will need to pay a visit to his great grandmother and father. Sansa sighed heavily, saying goodbye to the lush garden of the Reach, to the sunny and warm sunshine, the vibrant life of southern city. Vale is not as big as Reach, surrounded by mountains and its dense rainforests. But Vale is not too far from Winterfell—her hometown in further north—she might even go home to visit her brothers and her nephews and nieces more often. She rather felt lucky to bump into uncle Petyr that day; he brought her a chance to finally get on her feet independently.

“Do you need extra blanket, Miss?”

Sansa blinked away the tears that started to spring in her eyes and turned her head to the flight attendant.

“No, thank you.”

“Is everything allright, do you need something?” she noticed Sansa’s teary eyes and looked concerned.

“It’s okay… it’s… just… I finally leaving this city and I don’t think I will come back for a long, long time,” she whispered, not wanting Rory’s sleep interrupted by their conversation.

“Ah, I see.” The flight attendant smiled, “We hope you enjoy your flight, Miss Stark.”

“Thank you.”

As the plane finally moving to take off, Sansa hold Rory closer to her chest, feeling her son’s steady breathing. It calms her somehow.

_We will be fine. Vale is closer to home, and we will be surrounded by family. Perhaps I could take Rory to Winterfell when everything’s settled. We will be fine,_ she replayed the sentence like a prayer, and her memory recalled Tyrell Mansion, filled with sunshine and Loras’s laughter. She recollected how Loras’s brown hair used to fell framing his handsome face, his friendly smile and his gallant manner made her fall for him. She might love him still, though their love felt like another life ago. But she does care about the man and always wish him well.

A tear fell down her cheek and she brushed it with shaking hand.

_We will be fine. Goodbye, Loras._

\--

**SANDOR**

He growled in resentment as he pinched the car keys in his big hand. The remote squeaked under the over pressure and he yanked the door so hard for a second he thought the door would flop apart. It didn’t, so he climbed into the SUV.

“Damn old man,” he muttered.

“Oy, Sandor!” suddenly the object of his anger appeared from the house and called to him. “Oy! Remember to smile, okay, lad!”

“Piss off! If you weren’t so old I’d already gutted you down,” he barked back.

The older man only chuckled, “Well I don’t doubt you’d do, lad. Just drive and be safe.”

“Look, Sel, this is a very bad idea,” Sandor tried to plead, “You fucking crazy, old man. Why don’t you make Pod or that Brienne of fucking Tarth do your bid?”

“I told you, lad, Pod does not have driving license and Brienne—well, Jaime is in town so y’know how young couple spends their time whilst together… and you need to get out of the house. Breathe some fresh air, this is a beautiful evening, cool zephyr and all.”

“You bastard. You will regret this, old man, I assure you that.” He growled, starting the engine.

“I hope I don’t. The night is pretty dark, you won’t scare a soul.” Selmy give Sandor a fatherly nudge. “Be safe, okay. Smile.”

All four tires creaked loudly on the gravel as in protest when Sandor backs the gear and speed off into the night. He cursed the cheerful Barristan Selmy from the rearview mirror, how the older man goaded him to accept his bid driving Uber.

_An Uber!_ He cursed silently. _Fucking mad_ , _there would be no sane person who would voluntarily enter his car at night, whose driver had terrible scar on half of his face!_

He recalled how Selmy had paid him a visit at Sandor’s section of the house with that suspicious grin on his wrinkled face. Sandor was relaxing on his recliner, enjoying his beer with his black hound Stranger at his feet when Selmy approached and proudly said, “I have registered you on Uber.”

“YOU WHAT!”

Sandor knew sharing a house with that old man is a mistake, as Selmy act like some fatherly figure he despised. They have their own section of the house, aye, but Selmy always violating his privacy by entering Sandor’s area without being invited.

“Need fresh air, my ass,” he still cursing under his breath.

_Peep. Peep_. _Peep._

Ignoring the impulse to just throw his cellphone out the window, Sandor glanced at his phone. An order comes in. He ignored it.

_No one would get in the bloody car with him,_ he thought.

Sandor is tempted to pretend to have followed Selmy’s request, by not taking any order that comes into his Uber application that night. He decided to drive his car circling around the town, maybe stopping in a bar to grab some beer. Selmy is right through—the night is cool, but the Vale always gets breaths of fresh air, thanks to the mountains that frame the city.

Beginning to enjoy his night ride strolling the town, Sandor is lost in thoughts.

He had come to the city some years ago, finding solace near the rainforests and mountains of the Vale. After his last tour as army in Mereen, he finally thought he had seen enough and chose to retired. At forty five, he definitely still fit as a soldier and a good one too—considering his achievements and medals of Honor, now tucked in a box long forgotten in the attic. Life would be easier and happier to him if he had not share the house with Selmy, also a retired army, his mentor and fellow soldier in their last tours abroad. The old man really need to leave him be.

Unconsciously Sandor scratched his scar. It does not itch anymore, it even healed just fine. He had grown his black hair at shoulder-length, to try to cover the scar. At least that is what he can do to reduce fear and discomfort from people who happened to look at him.

_Peep. Peep. Peep._

His anger rose again at the sound, he almost really threw away his cellphone. At 9 PM it seems only more people go out and ordering Uber.

_Peep. Peep. Peep._

Was it just him, or the application demands his attention?

_Peep. Peep. Peep._

_I’d really gutted that old man in his sleep,_ Sandor thought. Since when locking yourself in your home surrounded by beer and pizza is a sin? He scratched his scar again, out of habit. Maybe he should turn off his cell… or even better, really throw it away. No one ever reached him again, since he retired to the Vale so he won’t miss that damn cell much.

_Peep. Peep. Peep._

_What kind of fool would get into a car with a stranger, in the middle of the night? These people are senseless_.

His curiosity finally won over. He pulled over and pick up his cell. An order comes in, from the airport. It is only ten minutes away from him. Should he just turn off his cell and forget about Selmy’s crazy idea, or should he at least try this stupid idea?

“Okay, you fucking old man. Let’s try this once.” He muttered and pinched _‘take order’._

The fastest route to the airport along with a passenger’s profile appeared on his screen. He narrowed his eyes reading it. A woman.

He grumbled. Doubt comes to him again. _If his passenger a man it’d be easier. No sane woman would get into his car—not after seeing her Uber driver got a nasty scar on his face,_ he thought. _But maybe if the woman got scared and declined, he’d be pleased to report that to Selmy and he’d leave me alone,_ he thought again. _Fine then_.

He drove his SUV to the highway, taking the direction to the airport.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys :D  
> here's a little background if you dont mind.. ;)  
> hope u enjoy this chapter

**SANDOR**

“Hi.”

The car’s back door swung opened and he heard the woman’s small voice. Sandor keeps his head looking straight, not bothering to give his passenger a chance to look at his face.

“Sansa Stark?” his voice sounded blunter than he intended.

“That’s me.”

Sandor gazed through the rearview mirror above the steering wheel, and cursed inwardly when he saw the young woman holding a child. She also seems struggling with her suitcase, but she doesn’t ask him for help. Sandor argued silently whether he should get out of the car and helps her—risking her to see his face by doing that—or just let her struggle. Her son started to fuss.

“Darling, its okay, Mommy’s here. Please wait mommy in the car.” She tried to shush the toddler, who now begins to wail.

“How many suitcase you bring?” Sandor gave in and takes the suitcase from her hand, lift it up easily and put it at the trunk of his SUV.

She looked up and Sandor saw the shock at her eyes when she noticed his scar. Sandor waited her answer, or any disgust response from her, standing silently in front of her. She is tall, but her full height only reached his shoulder as she stood there openmouthed. She blinked, and averted her eyes.

“I—sorry, that, and this.” She pointed to another suitcase on the floor.

Sandor nodded and put the last suitcase in his trunk. He climbed back behind the wheel and realized the woman still standing outside his car, her son now back in her arms. She looked doubtful, biting her lower lip. Under the bright light of the airport’s lobby her fiery hair made a pleasing look—even though it tousled into a messy big bun.

“You want to cancel?” he asked softly. “It’s okay if you want to cancel the ride. I will just get your suitcases out and—”

“Oh, no, no,” his voice seemed to snapped her back. “It’s okay, I’m sorry. I think I’m just tired.” She let out a smile and climbed into his car.

 _Fucking hells she gets in,_ Sandor thought.

“It’s all right, really.” Sandor said. “No big deal if you want to cancel.”

“Taxi’s out and my battery about to die. It’s okay,” she gave him a look, judging. Then softly she said—as if she was saying it to herself, “I don’t think you’d hurt us.”

He stared at her blue eyes. So blue, even in the dim of his car, like the spring clear sky.

_This woman must be out of her mind._

“No,” he replied. “I won’t hurt you guys.” He started the engine and soon enough they speed off from the airport.

The address she gave is located pretty far from downtown, just outside the city. Sandor knew the address—it is that big house, almost like a castle itself—sitting on a mountain, towering high. It belongs to the Arryn-Baelish couple, the wealthiest family in Vale. It took Sandor an hour to reach the address, and the road is not even crowded at night.

“Excuse me,” she spoke for the first time since they left the airport, her voice broke the contented silence. “My son is hungry; I wonder if it is okay to feed him in your car?”

Sandor furrowed his brows at the polite request. “Of course. No need to ask.” He replied.

“Thank you, sir.”

He sniggered. “I am not a sir.”

From the rear window he saw her blushed. They fell back into silence, with some noises she made as she pulled out some snack and help her son to eat. Feeling a bit rude to her while she was being nice, he coughed, “So, this address I’m delivering you and your son… are they your family?”

“The lady of the house is my aunt, actually,” she answered, not looking up from her son, so Sandor could stole glances from the rearview. “I work for her.”

The woman raised her hand to wipe at his son’s mouth and as the roadside lights shone through the car’s window, he saw she is not wearing any ring.

“Oh,” he said, thinking that the conversation had died. He is not a man who likes to talk, either.

“I’m sorry I don’t know their place is so far away from the airport.” She speaks again. She looked out the window, where rows of pine trees moved quickly as Sandor drive his car at high speed. They move increasingly away from downtown.

 “No need, woman. You paid,” he shrugged, biting away a laugh he almost unconstrained at her polished manner.

“This is my first time coming to Vale.” She said again, out of blue. “I have not seen aunt Lysa since almost a decade ago.”

Sandor didn’t reply.

“I don’t even attend her wedding to uncle Petyr, as I was heavily pregnant with Rory. They were childhood friends, you know? They finally married few years ago.”

 _She chirps like a little bird,_ Sandor mused.

“Uncle wanted to pick us up but I refused. I feel bad already, having him paid for our tickets.” He heard plastic wrap rustling, and her son sucked noisily from a bottle. “Do you live around here?” she asked.

“Hmmh, yeah, just near downtown,” he replied shortly, and to match her courtesy he added almost half-heartedly, “so what do you do for your aunt?”

“Oh, I am to be her personal assistant. Fetching her coffee, doing her laundry, replying her e-mails, that sort of thing I guess. Good salary so I can save up for Rory.” He noted her wistful tone.

“I hope you do,” he said, finding himself truly meant it.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Sorry,” she bit her lower lip again.

Sandor almost laughed. _This Uber thing is not so bad_ , he pondered. _I wouldn’t mind a passenger like her._ She is still young, well-polished manner, and she blushed like a maiden. Certainly someone well bred—like her relatives up there. _And she is damn pretty. What a lucky bastard the man who married her._

He exited the highway, right into the roadside that lead to the biggest house in the whole Vale. Its lights are lit along the pathway, dim yellow, glowing guiding their car to the main gate. Sandor pulled over and hopped from the car. He opened the trunk and easily lifts the woman’s suitcases in one swoop. A butler followed by two handmaids came out from the mansion and take over.

“Dearest niece!” A man, slender and wrapped in bedrobe made of finest silk appeared, walking excitedly towards the car.

Sandor noticed it was Petyr Baelish himself. The man stretched out a hand to help his niece. 

“Come, dearest, you must be exhausted. Hello, Rory,”

“Thank you, uncle. I can’t believe we are finally here.” Sansa huffed, her son in her arms.

“How was your flight, my dear?”

“It was nice, uncle, we can’t thank you enough,”

 _Pretty little bird chirping her courtesies_ , Sandor wants to roll his eyes but he stood idly by the car.

“Ah, good to hear. Come now, Lysa is waiting.”

Petyr ushered Sansa towards the house, but Sandor saw Sansa turn around to look at him, “Thank you...” She smiled.

Sandor shrugged dismissively. He could feel Petyr staring intently at him, and he is glad that Petyr stood at the side of his good face.

“The butler will pay you,” Petyr said briefly before escorting Sansa and the baby into the house. Sandor watched them disappeared through the oak door and took his payment, with significant tips, from the butler. He then climbed back into his car, deciding his first passenger was not so bad at all, and the journey was not as upsetting as he dreaded. He must give the young woman credit too—she did gracefully and voluntarily hopped into his car, in the middle of the night, knowing her driver could be a creep.

 _Or maybe she simply a half-wit,_ he thought. Whichever it was, does not matter--he won't meet her again.

He decided to call it a night; it was already midnight by the time he pulled into the garage. Stranger woofed happily when he came in, and to his dismay Selmy is waiting for him.

“How was it? Did you get many passengers?” he offered Sandor a bottle of cold beer.

Sandor only gave a shrug.

“I knew it was not so bad,” Selmy let out a winning grin. It took all Sandor’s will not to rub out that smirk off the older man’s face. “C’mon now, lad, you can tell me.”

“There’s none to tell,” he replied curtly.

“But don’t you pity this old man? At least you can tell how it was going,”

“The only pity I ever gave you is a clean death for making me do this,”

“Fine, fine,” Selmy put down his beer and grumpily walked towards his side of the house.

“I rue the day I agreed to share a house with you!” Sandor shouted at his back.

He finished his beer, tossed the bottle carelessly and retreated into his bedroom. Selmy’s side of the house is located at the second floor, and Sandor’s pick the pool house at the back of the main building. Sandor liked the idea of being alone and the pool house served his intentions allright.

His black hound hopped into the large bed and settled at the foot of his bed.

Sandor took off his boots and stripped out his clothing and stepped into the shower. He prefers to bathe in cold water, finding it peaceful. A bit odd for Selmy, he knew, but Sandor has gotten to it since he was just a boy. Selmy always complained cold water makes his arthritis worse, that damn old man. Sandor still had not forgiven Selmy for goaded him into this Uber-thing. Sandor had only agreed reluctantly to Selmy’s idea because he respect the old man. Now he is done parading like a fool, picking up people who wouldn’t look him in the eye.

 _But she looked you in the eye allright,_ he remembered the young woman. She even smiled before she went into the house. _I think she almost called me ‘sir’ again, chirping sweet courtesies,_ he contemplated. _What a little bird._

\--

**SELMY**

Barristan Selmy might well in his seventies now, old man as he is a senior citizen—but he stood as tall as the younger man sat in front of him by the pool.  Well, maybe the younger man is taller by some inches. Selmy judged him silently.

Sandor was his protégé back then, and as the young man rose in ranks and joining his elite forces in the army, they had become close friends. Selmy has grown fond of the gruff man, often refers Sandor as the son he never had. Though Sandor never seem to warm up to him as he’d like to, yet Sandor had grown docile enough to Selmy than other people. That must be something, right? Selmy looked gloomily at Sandor’s face; the ruined one is facing him.

“If you ever dare telling me again about ‘ _fresh air’_ I’d gut you right there, Sel.” Sandor snapped, as if reading Selmy’s mind.

Selmy threw his hands in the air in defeat, “You do need it, though, lad.”

“Stop it, Sel.”

“You had been locking yourself in the house too long,”

“I went out, remember,”

“Yeah, lad, to 7/11 to buy beers, or sitting by the pool like this.”

Sandor saluting Selmy with his beer can.

“Look, it has been some time since…”

“I said, _stop_ ,” Sandor’s voice full of threat.  

Selmy sighed. Sometimes Sandor could be a pain in the ass. He is worried about the man. Selmy’s time in Westeros’ elite force was up, and he retired as one of the most decorated soldier in the seven kingdoms. Sandor’s time was not, but the young man quit the same. Along with few other Selmy’s most trusted men they join into private mercenary service—and they served Lords, Kings, Usurpers, Celebrity alike. Just whoever paid their service and security the highest.

Selmy recalled it was during their last tour in Mereen as Westeros’ elite forces, that Sandor changed. There was a mole in their team, and the mission had been jeopardized. Selmy glanced at Sandor’s ruined face. They went home broken but in one piece, Sandor being the worst. Often Selmy think half of goodness Sandor’s got in him has gone in that last mission.

At forty five, Selmy afraid Sandor’s would spend his days drinking beer and wasted away. The man should live his days better than sulking by the pool. He hopes Sandor won’t make the same mistake as he did when he was young—and to live his life truly, the younger man needs to get out of the house.

“I have a job offer, lad, just a short trip to Bear Island. Some Lord wants to hunt and think he needs protection. Will need to pack and go the day after tomorrow.” He glanced up to Sandor, the latter basking in the sun sipping his beer. “You comin’ with us?”

“What’s going on inside these gnats’ mind, hunting with mercenary’s protection,” he spat.

“So you comin’?”

Sandor grumbled. “Pass.”

“Better enjoy driving Uber, then,” Selmy rose from his recliner as a beer can flew towards him.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shall we let them meet again? ;)

 

**SANDOR**

 

_Fire._

_The building is on fire. His brothers are on fire._

_He is on fire._

_Smoke and dust and embers filled the room, every breath he took send smuldering smoke into his lungs. He tried to cough but he can’t, he must not make a sound. Then he heard a shout, followed by gunshots._

_Selmy? No, not that old man._

_Was it Arthur?_

_Fire._

_Fire everywhere._

_Above his head the roof was ablaze with fire—gunshots hovered around him. He squatted and pressed his face cover tighter against his face. His visor wet from sweat. The Colt rifle hung heavily from his shoulder. Glass and steel and cloth all burning under his palm. He scarcely breathe. The floor started to cracked, giving in to the heat._

_“Abort mission... I called again, abort mission...” Barristan Selmy’s voice boomed from his radio, right into his earpiece. The radio crooked once, then twice, and he heard static._

_He tried to see through smoke and fire looking for his brothers but he could see nothing. A piece of log fell, his arm and neck catches fire from the burning splinters. He needs to find his brothers._

_Fire._

_Fire everywhere._

_Gunshots and fire._

 

Sandor woke up drenched in sweat. Stranger woofed and licked his face. The dream returned, vividly; he could feel how the fire had burnt him again, and again, and again... but every night it was always the same, he woke up before he could make a move. He just couldn’t.  He is afraid to see his brothers burnt alive, the static of the radio so loud piercing his ears. He lay sweating, Stranger nudged at his face feeling his master’s anxiety.

Trembling, Sandor sat and reached for the bedside lamp. He looked at the clock, glad it already sunrise. Knowing he won’t be sleeping again, he splashed cold water to his face and put on his shirt and jogging pants. He will need a very long morning run to clear off his head and before the sun rise higher, he better get going.

\--

 

**SANSA**

Three months into her routine in the Arryn-Baelish household, Sansa found herself finally settled in. The works she done for Lysa is a mundane one, but as Petyr had promised the pay is too good to pass. Her uncle had also found her a good daycare and for the first time since she has Rory, Sansa could focus at work without having to worry about her son.

She woke up at 5 AM every day, prepared and bathed Rory and after dropping him at his daycare, she’d back at the Arryn-Baelish manor to attend her aunt. Despite her intention to rent a place outside the manor, Petyr had insisted Sansa use the biggest guest room and she relented. She changed into her working attire : white buttoned shirt with black skirt that Lysa preferred,and tied her long auburn hair into ponytail.

Lysa Arryn-Baelish is still an attractive woman in her 50s and mainly she let Sansa be if not her eccentric affinities that sometimes drives Sansa nervous whilst attending to her. Sansa’s duties start at 8 AM, that’s when her aunt would emerged sleepily from her bed—expecting coffee (with milk, no sugar), pistachios (she is fond of it) and two slice of hard bread. Sansa helped her aunt prepare her day which mostly consists of arranging meeting with her girlfriends, or spending hours at the spa. Occasionally Lysa needs her to sort and takes care of her wide collection of handbags, shoes, and fur cloaks _(“These handmaids cannot and not used to handle fine treasures, but you do dear,”_ ) and instructs her to bring them for cleaning at her favorite laundry downtown _(“The one who worked before you stole my bracelet, I cannot dare let other people than you to do the job done.”_ ). Sansa also noticed that her uncle is not spending every night at his wife’s bed, and it reminds her of Loras. She shook her head at that, needed to stop thinking about her ex-husband.

Loras has not contact her again since his text wishing her goodluck. Sansa heard news about him and his family now and then, whenever the television in the maids’ quarter was turned on. They graces Westeros Today (Tyrells expending business to Essos, research about a new potato-breed or somekind, and how the Tyrells spent millions supporting some Lannisters’s campaign), and the gossip channels (Margaery Tyrell’s pregnancy rumour, Loras’s _another_ new girlfriend or hook up, Loras and Renly Baratheon caught skinny dipping in Blackwater Rush, Loras’s partying in the hottest club in Storm’s End)…

Sansa sighed, holding the silver tray filled with aunt Lysa’s breakfast. A handmaid opened the bedchamber’s door for her, and she entered as her aunt peeked from the bedpost.

“Goodmorning, aunt Lysa, how was your sleep?” she chimed in, settling the tray in front of her aunt.

“Petyr didn’t come to me last night,” she pouted. “He locked his bedroom, I couldn’t get in. He went to bed earlier.”

“Oh.” Sansa didn’t know how to respond. She busied herself with a stack of letters in Lysa’s desk. Mostly the letters goes unanswered, but she will need to opened them and write down what’s in it to tell her aunt later on. Lysa would instruct her whether to write a reply or burn the letters. The same goes with e-mails and other communication.

“What’s the appointment for today?”

Sansa take out her note and read, “You will need to meet with Mr Yohn Royce for lunch. I think he want to discuss further about his proposal.”

Lysa sniggered. “I wish I could cancel on that. The man had been buggering about the upcoming Governor election.”

“I beg your pardon, aunt Lysa, you obviously could, but you had canceled on him twice the past week.”

“Ah. Fine, I will see to him. I always told him to go discuss the matter with Petyr but Yohn never listens.”

Lysa sipped on her coffee, “Where is Petyr going today?” One of the unwritten job desks thrown to Sansa is snooping on his uncle. Instead of any news about the world, or her household, Lysa prefers frequent update on her husband. Once, she sent Sansa to check on Petyr who had gone to his study room “ _too long_ ” for her aunt liking.

“After breakfast he will go to Gulltown to inspect the aircraft factory. I heard Mr Donnel Waynwood will accompany him.”

“Do you know what his plans for tomorrow?”

“Not yet, but I will ask him, if it pleases you.”

“Thank you, dearest. It pleases me dearly.” Lysa smiled. “Thank Goodness we hired you. I cannot trust other to do what I just bid. Petyr seems to like you. Whenever I asked him directly he won’t answer and the same happened if I sent Vardis.” Vardis is their butler. “I just cannot stand it every time I was away from him.”

“I wish my ex-husband had the same affinity as you are, aunt Lysa.”

“Oh, Sansa,” her aunt gives her pitiful look. She motioned Sansa to sit by her on the bed. Lysa took Sansa’s hand and squeezed it. “How are you, my dear? Tell me; do you still in touch with Loras?”

“Honestly, not as much as I hope,” Sansa admitted. “But we are divorced now, and I could only think about Rory’s wellbeing.”

“You will love again, Sansa. Believe that. I was married off to Jon Arryn while in truth it was Petyr whom I dearly love. Look at us now. True love always finds a way. You will, too, someday.”

“Thank you…” Sansa forced a polite smile.

“I never asked you, but how is living in Vale, do you find it suit to your liking?”

“It is,” Sansa answered, “Vale is very beautiful. Rory is happy, too, thanks to you and uncle Petyr.”

“Now, now, ladies, I heard my name being mentioned,” a soft, sweet-dripping voice was heard from the bedchamber’s door. The voice of Petyr Baelish. The man slide into the room, flashing his white teeth and smile. When he approached closer Sansa could smell his minty breath. Lysa shrieked in pure bliss looking at her husband, and when she flung her arms to Petyr’s neck she showered him with kisses. Petyr’s eyes glanced up to Sansa.

Sansa blushed and looked away.

“What are you doing here, my love?” Lysa purred, all the while still clutching her husband.

“I was about to go to the aircraft factory when I need to see you. I know I can find you here,” Petyr replied, stroking Lysa’s cheek and eyeing Sansa.  “Having a good time, ladies? I hope I don’t interrupt something.”

“Sansa and I just talked about how well she settled in Vale. Darling husband, will you come home sooner?”

“I will try.” He freed himself from Lysa’s grip.

“I missed you. Come to my bed tonight.” She whispered.

Sansa stood, “Aunt Lysa, please excuse me. I need to go to the launderer and take your luncheon dress. I will back before your meeting with Mr Royce.”

“Of course, dearest. You do that,”

Sansa left and heading to the kitchen at the east side of the manor. She found Vardis the butler supervising the cook over an oven, talking in low voice about mutton and mushroom sauce. They didn’t acknowledge her coming in so Sansa coughed politely to inform her presence.

“Miss Stark,” Vardis turned at her and bowed. “How can I help you this lovely morning?” Vardis is a middle age man with balding hair; his green eyes sparkled with delight every time he speaks. Sansa really like him and her daughter, Mya Stone, whom the Arryn-Baelish also hired as Robin’s tutor.

“I need to go downtown to pick up Mrs Arryn’s dress for her lunch.”

“Ah, I will arrange a car for you, then, and informed Lothor to drive you there.”

“Thank you,”

Petyr Baelish is in the garage, about to climb into his grey Aston Martin when Sansa went in.

“Downtown? I can drive you. The factory is not far from downtown.” He said, motioning the passenger seat for Sansa. Petyr Baelish loves to drive by himself, despite he surely afford to have more chauffeur in his service. A reserved man, he doesn’t even hire secretary or personal assistant.

“Uncle, don’t be bothered, please. Lothor is driving me.” She glanced and sees Lothor Brune—the stocky, grey-haired chauffeur—stood beside a black sedan not far from them, waiting.

“I see. Safe ride, then,” another whip of minty smells, and Petyr Baelish disappeared into his car.

“Where to, Miss?” Lothor asked her when she gets into the black sedan.

Sansa gives the launderer’s address and Lothor nodded. He is familiar with the shop as it is Lysa’s favorite to send her precious jewels and expensive clothes to tend for.  Lothor is a quiet man, and Sansa is grateful as she could finish her other job while they rode in silence. First she pulled out her aunt’s stack of letters from her purse, tore on each of the envelopes, reading and takes notes on invitations to fundraisings (Lysa is fond of it, never want to skip donating thousands of dollars in front of other socialites) and lunches or dinners (she loved to clutch on her husband’s arm, mingling with a glass of sherry at hand). Sometimes a letter from distant family popped here and there—those letters usually goes unanswered. She confirmed Yohn Royce about the lunch today as Lothor exited the highway and soon enough Sansa found herself inside the launderer.

She carefully inspect the white fabric, to check if there is any damage or stain left behind, but as usual the launderer did a very good job.  No wonder, considering the cost Lysa’s paid for the service. Sansa nodded and said her thank you, taking her aunt’s dress wrapped carefully inside a clean laundry wrap. Lothor said he’d wait her at Hot Pie’s—a very well-known deli, famous for its pies and fresh coffee. A bell dings announcing her coming, and the fresh smell of coffee instantly struck her. She decided to grab one before they go back to Arryn-Baelish manor. Sansa spotted Lothor at the furthest end of the deli and waved at the man.

 _Caramel latte looks pretty alluring,_ she thought to herself, reading at the menu. _Oh, wow maybe she should settle for their cappuccino… and they sell lemon cakes!_ Sansa didn’t realize she was deep in thoughts that a line of waiting customers begins to form behind her.

“ _Ahem_ , are you ready to order?”

A gruff voice startled her and Sansa turned around to see a man standing impatiently behind her. Sansa had to look up to see his face as he is very tall. His muscled body wrapped under sweaty black shirt and matching jogging pants. His grey eyes looked at her back, under a set of thick furrowed eyebrows. An old scar, red and twisted graced almost half of his face even though the man seemed to try to cover it with his running cap. He also seemed familiar… _where did she see that face?_

“Well?” he raised an eyebrow, lips curled into a smirk.

“Oh, sorry, please go first.” Sansa moved to let the man make his order (a flat white, to take away).

He glanced at Sansa, “What do you want?”

“E-excuse me?”

“Your coffee. Your order?” he motioned impatiently towards the barista.

“One tall caramel latte,… and one of that lemon cake.”

He repeated Sansa’s order to the barista and before Sansa knew it, he paid and moved into the pick-up line. She hurriedly went to him, struggling with Lysa’s laundry bag and her own purse.

“Thank you, sir, you don’t have to pay for me as well,” she pulled out a hundred dollar bill from her wallet.

“I thought I told you to stop calling me that,”

She suddenly remembered where she did meet that face. Her uber driver.

“See, it was not so hard to make a choice. You need to make it quicker next time, some people don’t have all the time in the damn world.” The barista shoved their order, and the man grabs his coffee—thrusting the rest of the package to Sansa. “Keep your money, woman.”

“Wait!”

The man was already halfway to the door when Sansa called after him.

“Wait, please, if you don’t want my money, then can I buy you coffee next time?”

He cocked his head, “Are you asking me to a date, woman?”

Sansa felt her cheeks blush, “No, but I don’t think it is right if I don’t repay you today.”

He scoffed and turned his heel.

“What is your name?”

 _Oh Gods why did I ask him that!_ For a second Sansa thought the man would just ignored her and walk away, until he said, in his grumpy voice, “Its Sandor. Sandor Clegane,”

“I’m Sansa Stark.”

“Yeah I remembered.”

“Are you ready to leave, Miss Stark?” suddenly Lothor appeared on her side, “Is everything okay?” he looked warily towards Sandor, who stood a head taller than him.

“Yes, let’s go,” she said hesitantly. Lothor opened the deli’s door for her. “I hope we meet again, Mr Clegane.”

Sandor Clegane smirked, and touched the brim of his running cap. “Goodbye, Little bird.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoy this chapter =)  
> Sandor's PTSD inspired from Dream Theatre's song 'Pull Me Under'.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sansa took her chance.. :D

**SANSA**

“Look,” Mya Stone sat in front of Sansa in the kitchen, her green eyes—the same color like her father Vardis the butler—eyeing Sansa with seriousness the younger woman could muster. For the good thirty minutes of their break, Mya tried to pursue Sansa to accept her invitation. “You are my friend, Sansa, and I _want_ you to be there. My parents would be happy to watch over Rory just for few hours.”

“I don’t know, Mya, really.” Sansa bit her lip, doubtful.

“I _want_ you in my birthday dinner,” Mya emphasis her request. “Or you can bring Rory, I wouldn’t mind.”

“But don’t you and Lothor want to be alone?”

Mya rolled her eyes. “Oh please. Lothor and I got plenty of time alone allright. Besides, I want to take you along. You never leave the manor to wind out, Sansa.” Mya had been dating Lothor for a year.

“It’s because I need to take care of my son, Mya.”

“Okay how about, we asked my parents if they could watch Rory for the night, and you can leave early after dinner?”

Sansa had tried every excuse she could think of and yet Mya is not deterred, so she yielded and told Mya she’d leave as soon as the clock strikes 8 PM—she cannot stay for drink or dance or whatsoever after dinner. The younger woman accepted Sansa’s term. Mya is a kind hearted girl, and they have become friends soon enough since Sansa arrived. As the Arryn-Baelish household butler, Mr Vardis Stone is granted a small cottage in the manor’s ground which served as his family home. The kind man and his lovely wife—Mya’s mother—instantly said yes to babysit Rory. Sansa felt bad about the situation, she doesn’t want to leave Rory but the Stones encouraged her to go for Mya’s birthday dinner, downtown.

“So what should I wear?” Sansa asked jokingly, “I haven’t been out for a very long time,”

“Whatever you feel comfortable,” Mya replied, “Maybe a nice little dress? Who knows you might meet someone right!”

“Oh, I don’t know…” she trailed away.

“Sansa, don’t be so sullen. I think it’s about time you think about yourself. Go out, meet someone new…”

“But Rory…”

Mya held her friend’s hand and gave it a soft squeezed. “He will be allright. Don’t be too hard on yourself. Besides, don’t you think you need to move on from you ex-husband?” she asked carefully.

“I think so.” She didn’t tell Mya who was her ex-husband. Her coworkers do not know that it was Loras Tyrell, since gossips flew easily and ever since becoming Loras’s wife Sansa tried to humbled herself. Sometimes she thought Loras’s extravagant and over-exposure life made her suffocate in their short-lived marriage. When she asked Loras to never mention her in front of the press, he was flabbergasted. To him it was always the attention of others that mattered. He literally is basking in it.

The day of Mya’s birthday come, and Sansa bought her friend a nice pair of earring she had been fussing about. Near afternoon she excused herself from her aunt’s service and joined Mya and Lothor at the garage, the couple had waiting for her.

“Ready, Sansa?”

“Yes,”

Her friend saw Sansa’s uneasiness and quickly said, “Don’t worry, Sansa. My parents will pick up Rory and watch over him. After dinner you can leave early. But please, give yourself a break.”

Sansa smiled, “Thank you, Mya. Really… you are very kind to me.”

Mya brushed it off happily and they climbed into Lothor’s jeep. The Arryn-Baelish manor located in the outskirts of the city, and it took them a good hour before they finally reached downtown. The reservation was made for 7 PM, and they settled at the restaurant’s bar while waiting for their table.

“So tell me again about this guy,” Mya asked, sipping her cosmo.

“Who?”

“The guy who bought you coffee! The uber driver, hello?”

Sansa let out a nervous laugh, “What should I tell you about? I have told you everything. We didn’t exchange much, since your boyfriend pestering me to go.” She glared accusingly to Lothor.

“Hey, I didn’t,” Lothor protested, “But the guy looked creepy enough, the way he stared at you. I thought he was intimidated you.”

“Oooh isn’t my boyfriend the sweetest?” Mya purred at Lothor.

“He is not creepy!” Sansa complained.

“He’s got this big nasty scar on his face,” Lothor added. “Wonder what made it.”

 “What about the stare she gave Sansa?” asked Mya, curious.

“You know. _The look_.”

“What look?”

Lothor rolled his eyes. “The look every man does, looking at their woman. Thinking what’s beneath the clothing.”

“Like you looked at me?” Mya purred. Lothor laughed and they started kissing.

“Oh come on you guys, don’t make me regret being the third wheel,” Sansa protested. “Why everyone is so in love?”

“What do you mean?” Lothor asked, both his arms wrapped around Mya’s skinny body.

“You and Mya. Petyr Baelish and my aunt,” Sansa rolled her eyes. “Never stop kissing and cuddling. Maybe you should find me a man, I’ve not seeing anyone since my divorce.” she joked.

“I don’t think Mr Baelish is in love with your aunt, Sansa,” Mya whispered. “I’ve heard rumors. Mostly when my father chatted with my mom when they thought I have gone to bed. There’s talk that people close to the late Jon Arryn are not happy your aunt remarried to Petyr Baelish. They said he is a social climber and thereof.”

“Oh my God, that was bad,”

“That’s why Yohn Royce never wants to meet Petyr Baelish. Jon Arryn was a good and just Governor, and his death so sudden. I heard Yohn Royce wants your aunt to run for the Governor’s office in the upcoming election, Sansa. He is worried Petyr Baelish would nominate himself, being married to Jon Arryn’s widow. Whomever has the Arryn conncetion stands a chance to win the election.”

Mya sipped at her cosmo as Sansa tried to digest what she just heard.

“My father never trusts Petyr Baelish, but he is loyal to the Arryn household, so he stays.” Mya shrugged. “And when Robin comes to age he would study politics and become a kind and just Governor like his late father.”

“I see.”

“You better careful around your good uncle, Sansa.” Mya glanced at her friend. “He is kinda weird, alone and all those sweet-talking…”

The maître d' informed them their table is ready, and Sansa started to ease off.  Mya is right; she do enjoyed their night out, even for a while. The food were delicious and their conversation getting more pleasant. At the end of the meal Lothor ordered rum cake for them and Sansa even tried a bit. She never liked alcohol, and a bit or two to the alcohol flavored cake was enough to make her head felt light.

“I should get going,” she murmured. “Rory must be waiting.”

“Wait, I’m coming with you. Let’s go, Lothor.”

“No, please stay. You and Lothor deserve to enjoy this night. Don’t let my motherly obligations preventing you from having fun.” Sansa smiled at her friend’s haste.

“But how do you go back to the manor? It’s a long ride.”

“I will order an uber, don’t worry,”

Mya looked uncertain and Sansa has to remind her friend about their arrangement, that she would leave early and Mya resumed her birthday night with Lothor. Reluctantly, Mya sees Sansa grab her coat and Sansa kissed her cheek.

“Thank you, Mya. I will see you in the morning. Lothor you be good to her.”

“Don’t worry, Miss,” Lothor winked. “She is safe with me, aren’t you pretty lass?” the man nuzzled on Mya’s neck.

“Oh, I hope you get yourself a handsome driver, Sansa!” Mya called out, giggling.

Sansa laughed at her friend’s jest and swiftly made way to the restaurant’s lobby, concentrating to the application in her cellphone. To her surprise, no one took her order. After almost thirty minutes trying to get an uber, she had started to get annoyed and anxiously looking out for taxi (there is none). Finally, her cellphone _beep_ and she saw the ‘ _we got you a driver!’_ notification popped in.

Sighing her relief, she waited for the car.

A black SUV pulled over in front of her no longer than five minutes later, the plate license matched with her application. Sansa opened the passenger seat and the first thing she heard was a raspy voice from behind the wheel.

“Well, isn’t it Sansa Stark,”

She froze at the door and recognized the face of Sandor Clegane. His lips curled into a rather mocking smirk, the one identically she remembered from their encounter at the deli just few days ago.

“Mr Clegane,” was only sentence she could accumulate in her surprise. “What a pleasure to meet you again,” she added quickly.

“Pleasure is mine,” he said, but in sarcastic tone.

Sansa settled on his passenger seat and buckled up. They rode in silence; the SUV splits the hubbub of the city. From her seat Sansa stole glances at the man. Tonight he donned leather jacket with black shirt underneath, his jeans of the same color. He tied his shoulder-length hair; the damaged part of his face was facing her.

“Like what you see?” his voice snapped her to reality.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to stare,”

“There are two kinds of people; the one who looked away in disgust, and those who stares but in fear.”

Somehow it offended Sansa. “I’m not scared, if that what you meant.”

He let out a laugh. “Suit yourself then, woman.”

“Why are you so cynical?” she blurted out without thinking and the moment she realized what she just said made her anxious. She thought he’d angry and throws her out from his car, but instead he just drive and didn’t reply. Sansa instantly felt guilty. “I—I’m so rude, I shouldn’t say that.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You should stop apologizing easily.”

“Sorry…”

He chuckled.

“Is this your full time job? Driving?” Sansa asked to ease the tension.

“You can say so, whatever.” he said shortly.

“Do you get many passengers?”

“Are you interrogating me, woman?”

“Sorry.”

He barked a laugh. “The little bird cannot stop chirping and saying sorry, can she?” he shook his head as if in disbelief he actually got himself a chatter passenger.

“You seemed to saw a lot.” She is eyeing him.

That pricked his interest. “Speak plainly, woman.”

She shrugged and trying to sound casual as she spoke, “Just got the sense you are not like what you are showing. You seemed to saw a lot in life that makes you always in such mood.”

“Aye, I did see a lot.” He sniggered.

“What do you see?”

He hesitated and Sansa thought he actually considered telling her—but then he shut down again.  

They moved towards the outskirts of the city, entering the highway. Soon the uproar of the city changed into rows of pine trees in the dark of the night. It’s a bit weird Sansa actually enjoyed sitting next to the gruff mysterious man, riding in the dead of the night with him. No matter her thoughts flew to Rory and how she badly wants to hold his son as soon as possible, Sansa found herself almost dreading the trip would be over.

 _What a strange feeling_ , she pondered as she saw the Arryn-Baelish’s manor started to loom not far ahead. They’d soon part ways again; Sansa faintly remembered the man mentioned he live near downtown when they first rode together, almost three to four months ago. Given the distance between them, she didn’t know when she could see him again. _But why would she want to meet him again? He is bad-tempered and he seems to find joy mocking me._

“Here we are,” Sandor rode his SUV through the manor’s gate and stopped right before the front porch.

Sansa opened her purse to fetch her money when she recalled their meeting at the deli.

“I owe you a cup of coffee,” she said.

“No need, woman. I told you—just make your choice quicker next time.” He scoffed.

“I still want to buy you your coffee…” _sir,_ she almost slipped the word but she bit her tongue.

He seemed to be taken aback, but he said nothing. “Shall we meet again?” Sansa took a deep breath and added quickly, “Don’t worry it’s not a date. Just….coffee.” She didn’t want to send the wrong message; they didn’t even trade their current relationship status. What if he’s got girlfriend? Or worse, if he’s married. He certainly appeared much older than her.

She half expect him to scoff at her or at least give her that mocking smirk, but he just sat in silence. Feeling a bit shamed and accepting her defeat, she murmured her thanks and leaves his payment on the dashboard when she heard him replied in low, husky tone.

“Of course.”

 “Great.” _Oh my God, don’t blush_ , she reprimand herself.  “I’m off this Sunday, if you are free.”

“I am.”

“Great.”

“Yeah.”

_Okay, this is getting awkward._

Sansa looked for something in her purse and took out a business card her Aunt made for her.

“Here is my number. So…uh, we can discuss more about coffee.”

 _Did she just say it?_ Sansa wish the ground split and swallowed her.

Sandor took it from her hand, tracing the ivory white card with his thumb.

“It’s just coffee.” She said meekly, as if to remind him not to think there is more than her repays his coffee few days ago.

“I don’t doubt it.” He said, giving her his mocking smirk.

“Perfect. Goodnight, Sandor.”

The passenger’s door was halfway swinging close when Sansa heard it.

“Goodnight, Little bird.”

 _Mya would laugh her pants off at me,_ she thought.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys thank you for stickin in :D  
> before we move further i want to share Sandor's (and Selmy's) past when they were in the army.  
> bringing you to their past to cement what will revealed on next chapters.. hope you enjoy the ride :)
> 
> p.s.  
> TOC stands for Tactical Operations Center.

**SELMY – VALYRIA, 15 years prior.**

Operation _Nightcrawler_ saw Selmy’s team dispatched into the depth of Valyria. He saw tall, burned, twisted buildings as the AS532 Cougar descended onto its peninsula, three kilometers away from their mission point. The height and density of buildings in old Valyria does not allow their helicopter to land in the ruined city. They will walk beneath the cover of the night, he and his five men; Westeros’ special force unit that he led, known as team _Kingsguard._

Their mission was quite simple. Few hours ago Westeros’ satellite fell into Valyria, containing sensitive military information and they were sent to retrieve the hardware before other interested parties found the fallen satellite. Valyria was known as no man’s land, torn by decade’s long war between two tribes: the stone men and dragonlords. It was the enemy’s line.

“TOC—we’re in.”

“Copy that. Good luck, team _Kingsguard,”_

Selmy motioned his team to advance, and once the last men’s foot dropped onto the slippery peninsula, the Cougar flew away, leaving them in the cold of Valyria. No sound, no light. They crept into rows of dead trees, relaying on their night vision goggles to send green images of their surroundings. Even their boots didn’t make a sound. Their breath steady. Six men advanced between dead trees, rifles aim to the dark. Barristan Selmy leads the front, Sandor Clegane on his right and Arthur Dayne on his left. They reached the end of the peninsula and before entering the ghost city, Selmy gathered his men to assess their strategy.

“We only have an hour to infiltrate Valyria—that’s how long TOC will cover our mission before our enemies’ own satellite found suspicious activities. Hound, Dawn, and Greenblood with me.” The three men he mentioned nodded silently. “Cutthroat and Pennytree, look for a tower or building high enough to guard.” The two men nodded. “One hour gentlemen. In and out.”

The team then moved and split into two, Alpha and Bravo. He led the Alpha to find the fallen satellite while Bravo watches over and protect the latter from any enemies who might approach. The night is silent—even no wind blows. They crept again, leaving the shadows of dead trees of peninsula, beginning to enter the ruins of the old scarred city.

“ _Kingsguard_ , two kilometers to package.”

No sound, no light.

The night was as dead as the old Valyria.

“ _Kingsguard,_ one kilometer to package.”

“Copy,”

From the corner of his eye Selmy saw Meryn and Duncan went into a ruined tower. He cocked his head to Sandor. They finally see what they were sent for; the smoking fallen satellite, burned and broken into pieces.

“TOC, we see the package.”

Selmy motioned to Sandor and the younger man took out his Strider knife. Sandors scraped and try to pried open the cockpit where the hardware is stored while Selmy, Arthur and Arys took position surrounded their comrade, looking into the darkness.

“Any movement, Bravo?”

“Negative, Alpha.” Merryn’s voice shrieked in his earpiece. “wait, I saw something.”

Selmy’s heart beat faster. Sandor has not succeeded opening the cockpit.

“What issit, Bravo?”

“Three men approaching. We will take them down.”

“Copy that.”

“C’mon, Hound,” he whispered, not urgently.

Sandor grunted and with a soft _clank_ a piece of metal fell down. Sandor reached inside the cockpit and pulled out small box with Westoros’ logo on it. He tucked the box inside his bag. Selmy let out a breath as he spoke into his radio.

“TOC—Package has been retrieved.”

“Good job, _Kingsguard._ Now back to checkpoint.”

“ _Wilco,_ TOC.”

The four men gathered and together they walked quickly towards the peninsula. Merryn and Duncan have just joined them when Selmy heard the sound.

A _click,_ then the swift sound that split the air.

“ _INCOMING_!”

They fell down and braced on time as the RPG stroked the ground—sending debris and dust. Selmy heard Sandor and Arys cursing; he got up and relieved to see that none of his men were hurt.

“Fuck, we have been found out,” Merryn cocked his rifle, ready to fire back.

Five men in black dress and shawl covering their face—only their eyes can be seen—emerged from behind the ruins, and Selmy recognized the attire as the stone men. They opened fire at them, but Selmy and his team were faster—the five men were down a second later.

“TOC, send the _bird_ now, enemy approaching!”

“The _bird_ will wait for you, ten minutes maximum.”

“Fuck!” Sandor is still cursing. More stone men came in, raining them with shots and RPGs. They take cover in ruins and abandoned buildings, shooting the enemy and took down as many as they can. “We need to move, Old man!” he heard him yelled.

Duncan reached to his belt and pulled a grenade, opened the pin and throws the small ball towards the enemy. On the other side of Duncan and Selmy took shelter, Sandor did the same. Once the grenades explode—sending body parts and dirt into the air—the six men run to the peninsula.

“We need to get rid of their RPGs!” Sandor shouted into his earpiece. “Can’t risk them shot the bird down!”

“Cover me, brother,” Arthur cocked his rifle and shot at one of the stone man who happened inserting a missile into his launcher.

More stone men coming—and Sandor shot three men who pointed their guns towards Arthur.

“Oh, just another day in paradise,” Merryn laughed. He shoots endlessly towards the enemy until his gun ran out of bullets. Sandor shot two more stone men who were about to attack Merryn when the man reloaded his rifle. “Thanks, Hound.”

Arys and Arthur took down another stone men with RPG launchers.

“ _Kingsguard,_ where is your position?”

“TOC we are a bit delayed.” Selmy answered. “Tell the _bird_ to wait.”

“You only have five minutes. Faster.”

“Let’s go, boys!”

They ran into the night, leaving the now burning battleground and screaming stone men, into the row of dead trees. Water sloshed from their boots, but they didn’t give in to the slippery rocks. They could hear the sound of their AS 532 Cougar—waiting to take them. Some stone men followed them, shooting at them. They hate six Westerosi dared to ventured into their region, and no wonder they feel that way since Westeros has been arming their enemy—the dragonlord—and invading half of Valyria itself.

Arthur and Sandor halted and fired back at them. The helicopter crew drops a rope and Merryn starts climbing up. The next was Duncan.

“Hound, Dawn! Let’s go!” Selmy shouted.

“You go first, you bring the damn hardware,” Arthur bellowed at Sandor.

Sandor raised his rifle and grabbed the rope. As waves of angry stone men appeared at the peninsula, he saw Arthur and Selmy trying to hold them back. To his horror, he saw one of the enemies raising a warhead toward their helicopter.

“ _RPG!_ ” Instinctively he raised his rifle and fire, as did Duncan and Merryn as soon as they heard him shouted. The stone man with the launcher drops dead, but his fellow soldier pick up the fallen launcher and aimed. _This will not end fast enough,_ he thought.

Selmy thought the same as Sandor did, and he pulled Arthur’s vest towards the dangling rope. “Get in!” he barked, climbing right behind Arthur. “Pull! Pull!” the pilot heard him and immediately raises the Cougar higher.

Merryn pulled out his grenades and throws them at the stone men below, “Suck my cock, bitches!” he laughed.

Selmy shot him a disagreed look and Merryn shrugged.

“What? The dragonlord clan would thank us for shagging them up.” He grinned at his leader.

“TOC—mission accomplished.” Selmy spoke into his radio, still glaring at Merryn.  Sandor takes out the small box from the satellite cockpit and hands it to Selmy. “We secured the package.”

“Copy, _Kingsguard._ Let us take you home. Good job, soldiers.”

“Can’t wait for home. Over and out.”

Selmy took out his helmet and rested his head on the headrest. He examined his men, and grateful that they got out unscratched to live another day, for another war.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter will be about sansa and sandor's 'just coffee'. :D  
> thanks for reading!  
> (sorry for any misspelling or error, this is my first time writing about war and army)


	7. Chapter 7

 

**SANSA**

Her friend really did laugh hysterically when Sansa told her about her latest Uber ride. Between her laugh she managed to say, “You asked him on a date? Oh, Sansa!”

“No, I was not!” Sansa moaned.

“Whatever it was, I’m happy for you.” She said solemnly, shaking her head. “Gods, I really surprised you do like your Uber driver.”

“I don’t like him _that way_. I just repaid his coffee.”

Mya rolled her eyes. “You need to like the person if you ask them to hanging out with you. Lothor said he is scary, though.”

“He is not.”

“Hmmmh.”  Thankfully, Mya let it pass.

Sunday comes, and Sansa took her day off to go downtown with Rory. Last night Sandor had text her that every morning he would go for morning jog, and that he always stop at Hot Pie’s for his coffee—that if she’s still interested to meet him. She does. Sansa decided to take Rory with her—planning a Sunday strolling around town with him—plus what else screaming _it’s not a date_ when she brings her son in tow?

After feeding Rory, Sansa put on her favorite blue blouse which compliments her eye color. She pairs it with black legging, a sky-blue scarf, and booties. Sansa brushed Rory’s auburn locks, tuck his snacks and bottle into her mommy-totebag before turning her attention to her hair. Her long red hair curled into big bun and Sansa secured the locks with hairpins. It is not the prettiest hairstyle for her, but the most comfortable since Rory had developed the habit to pull her hair if she let it loose. She almost reached the front porch of the manor when she met Petyr Baelish in the hallway. Her good uncle smiled at her, waving at them to come closer.

“Going out, I see,” he said in his soft, sweet-dripping voice. “with Mya?”

“No, it’s only me and Rory downtown.” Sansa smiled. Better not mentioning Sandor.

“Ah, I will drive you, then. I insist,” he said when he saw Sansa started to voicing her reluctance. “This manor is located too awfully faraway from anywhere, no? Let me be the good uncle and drive you and Rory.”

 “But aren’t you going somewhere with aunt Lysa?” Sansa recalled from her memory that her aunt had planned a Sunday brunch, followed with leisurely stroll along the Gulltown. Lysa had instructed her to make sure her uncle’s schedule is vacant today.

“Lysa will be just fine,” Petyr brushed her off and took her hand, guiding her outside where his aston martin is waiting. “Now, come, dearest,”

Rory squirmed in her arms, making protests sounds.

“Please don’t make aunt Lysa waiting. She will look for you.”

“Ah, I will just text her and let her know I have something important to take care first,” he winked. “Now where in downtown should I drop you?”

Sansa gave in and they rolled out the manor after a short pause which Petyr sending a text message to Lysa. Rory safely buckled at the back seat. Petyr dominated the talking during their trip, with Sansa “Hmm”-ing or “Yes, uncle”-ing here and there to make polite interest replies about what he’s talking about (mostly the aircraft factory, and his other ventures).

“…and did your late mother—God bless her soul—ever mentioned that?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, what?” Sansa pulled herself from her own thoughts at the question.

“You have not paid any attention to what I was saying, have you?” Petyr smiled knowingly.

“I—,”

“It’s okay, I did talk too much. And you do inherit that look from your mother, when your mind is somewhere else.”

Sansa knew Petyr Baelish and her mother, Catelyn, were childhood friends back in their hometown in the Riverlands. When Catelyn married her father and moved to Winterfell, Petyr would come and visit frequently, always bringing candies and gifts for her and her siblings. But especially for her, which she remembered Petyr always said as “ _his favorite niece_ ”.

“I fondly remembered you used to sit on my lap while sucking the lemon candies I brought you. Do you remember it?”

Sansa felt uneasiness building inside her at the memory and she blushed. “Lemon candies were my favorites. I remembered Robb and Arya hated it because it was so sour.”

Petyr held out a hand and stroked her cheek. His hand is cold and Sansa shivered unwittingly. “You grew up just like your mother. Such a pity she died so young…” She just realized her uncle didn’t take the highway—which is faster—but chooses the mountainside road. She itched to jump off the speeding car and away from his cold hand.

“Uncle…”

“Petyr,” he whispered.

“Petyr,” Sansa complied, “aunt Lysa will be looking for you and she will not so pleased.”

“I can always made up to her.” He shrugged. “Besides, you are family. She’d want to make sure you and Rory make it safe downtown.”

The car ride stretched longer than Sansa expected, and when they pulled over a block away from Hot Pie’s (Sansa couldn’t wait any longer to get out of his car), it was already thirty minutes past the time she promised Sandor. Taking the protesting Rory in her arms (the toddler insisted on walking on his own), Sansa raced into Hot Pie’s. Her face beet red from walking fast and she needs to catches her breath when she finally put Rory down inside the deli. At three year old, Rory had put more weight that he will surely get heavier to carry.

Even on Sunday morning a line of customers had formed in front of the cashier. Sansa’s eyes darted to lines of tables but she didn’t see Sandor Clegane. As the line in front of her begins to thinning, and finally when only a woman before her, Sansa’s cellphone buzzed. A text message comes in.

Sandor : _You’re late_. One flat white, a _nd make your choice quicker._

Her lip curled into a smile as she finally reached the cashier, ordering the coffee for both of them.

 _Where are you?_   She texted back her reply.

The answer came quick enough.

“Hey.” His gruff voice rang behind her. Sansa turned around and welcomed him with a smile.

“Hey.”

Sandor wears a grey trainer, black Nike running trousers and a black jacket. He also wears his running cap again, but Sansa could see his grey eyes sparkled when their eyes met. He tucked his cellphone inside his jacket.

“Sorry I was late…” she handed him his coffee. “Here is one flat white for Mr Clegane.”

“Thank you.” He muttered his thanks, taking the cup from her and for a second their fingers brushed. “Now the lady’s debt is paid off.” His signature mocking smirk appeared again. He nodded to Rory, “I see you bring your kid.”

“Well, I told you it’s not a date,” Sansa smiled, trying to appeared like the mocking one he always gave her.

He barked a laugh.

The found an empty table at the end of the deli and sat. Sandor took off his running cap; his long fingers brushed his dark hair, seemed indifferent to the presence of her. Sansa recollected how strong his leg muscles are, when the man walked in front of her wrapped in tight jogging pants. Now he took off his black jacket, the white t-shirt beneath damp with sweat. Blushing, Sansa noticed his muscular biceps. Everything about him seems so masculine and he is obviously taller than every man she met.

“I hope I don’t keep you waiting.” She started, after settling Rory at the highchair (thank the Gods the deli offered high chair for their little customers).

Sandor shot her a look, “I’m waiting of course, a good thirty minutes of waiting.”

 _He won’t make this conversation easy,_ Sansa groaned inwardly, “Sorry.”

“Quit your apologies. I’m okay with that.”

“Were you waiting outside?”

“Of course. I couldn’t sit inside because I’m not a paying customer, right?”

Sansa blushed.

“So… do you drive on Sundays?”

He didn’t reply right away, taking his time to sip his coffee.  “Maybe.” He shrugged. “Why, do you need a lift?”

 _That mocking smirk again_.

Refuse to bulged, she stared back at Sandor. “Well. It’s a long ride back from downtown.”

Sandor laughed, “Daring Little bird,” He said, “to hopped into some disfigured man’s car. If you are not careful you might get hurt, you know?”

 “But you won’t hurt me.” It is a statement rather than question. Just like their first meeting at the airport.

“And why is that?”

“I just know. You won’t hurt me and my son back then, and you won’t hurt me now.”

He stared at her like she is some mad woman, and Sansa noticed how his eyes reminded her of the stone Labradorite; they were intense, and so beautiful that suddenly she is afraid she might lost herself staring at his eyes.

“No, I won’t hurt you.” He said, took a sip from his cup.

Even though they sat facing each other separated by a table, Sansa could feel the heat from his body. Shyly, she examined his face. The burned scar was like a map that split the right side of his face, starting from the top of his head, spreading in stripes and grated his face—like a river flowing—to his cheek and nose, all the way down to his neck before the scar disappeared behind the t-shirt that covered his shoulder. The scar has healed long ago. _He also has some other scars on his arm_ , Sansa noticed. _And he doesn’t wear any ring, too._

He let her scanned his face and arm and when her eyes darted back to his, she felt mortified with herself.

“I see the Little bird do enjoy the sight,” he rasped, the corner of his scarred mouth twitched.

 “Does it hurt?” she asked.

“My scar?” He raised an eyebrow. “It is not, now.”

“Do you want to tell me what happen?”

“It was not an interesting story, woman.” He shrugged her off but she noted the anger flashed in his grey eyes. He reached for his running cap and put it on again; lowering his head so she cannot see his face. “I should know the coffee comes with some chirping,” he teased.

Sansa blushed again. “So I remembered you said you live around here?”

“Yeah.” He looked surprised she remembered. “Just some block away.”

The man didn’t bother to ask her anything back, and soon the conversation died down. They fall into silence, but somehow it is the kind of comfortable silence. Sansa finished her coffee when Sandor looked outside the window, drown in his own thoughts. For some time the only sound among them is Rory's munching his snack.

“Should we go and leave you in peace, Mr Clegane?”

“Miss Stark,” he rasped as she gathered her jacket and tote bag.

“I’m truly sorry I bothered you with _my_ _chirping_ , Mr Clegane.” She didn’t mean the words to sound so icy, but it did. Sansa started to unbuckled her son from the high chair.

He rose from his chair, his own jacket on his hand. “Please. I have been rude. Not many people want to chat with some disfigured man, you know. I think I forgot my manners.”

Sansa instantly felt guilty. “I didn’t mean to probe, really. I’m happy I finally repaid your coffee. I won’t disturb you again.”

“You are not disturbing me.”

Their eyes locked and Sansa’s stomach flutters unsuspectingly. His grey eyes reminded her so much of her Father’s. The anger on him fades, and Sansa sensed some sadness in his eyes now.

“Do you have any plans after this?” he gestured to Rory. “with—uh, your husband?”

“I’m divorced.”

“Oh.”

“Just a stroll with my son, looking around town.”

“I see.”

Sansa took Rory out of his high chair and took his son’s hand when he heard Sandor coughed out a question, “May I accompany you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, I can be your tour guide if you want. Besides, it will be purely professional. Not a date,” he smirks. "If you could use a driver like me."

“Oh.” She laughed, glancing nervously at Rory.

The boy looked at Sandor with his wide brown eyes. “Can I haf ice cream?”

Sandor smiled at the boy, “If your mother allows.”

“I promised him ice cream if he finished his breakfast, and he did.” Sansa smiled.

“Well, aren’t you a good boy,” Sandor mussed Rory’s hair and the boy giggled.

“Ice cream, ice cream!”

“Do you know any ice cream vendor around here?” Sansa sighed.

“I can take you both there, if you want to wait for me to get the car.” Sandor offered. “I live just some blocks away.”

“What do you think, Rory? Should we wait for Mr Clegane?”

“Yes!” the boy smiled broadly at Sandor, and the latter seems taken aback for a second.

“I won’t be long.” He said, and swiftly left the deli.

\--

 

**SANDOR**

Selmy looked at him as if a second nose grew on his face overnight. The older man watched as Sandor rushed into the house, disappeared into the pool house, only to appear again with clean t-shirt underneath his black jacket and jeans. He even followed Sandor to the front porch, wearing only his favorite floral shorts.

“I never knew you finally enjoyed driving uber, lad,” he said, scratching his chin.

“Don’t flutter yourself, old man,” Sandor scoffed. “Just looking for fresh air like you always advises.”

“Bugger that, something happened, didn’t it?”

Sandor gets into his SUV and rolled the window, “Am I clean enough?”

“For a man like you? Like an angel fell down to earth,”

Sandor rolled his eyes at Selmy’s reply. But Selmy looked serious now, “There is a meeting tonight, come huh? About the new project. The boys will be here after lunch.”

Sandor nodded—Bronn and Daario have been fussing about the new project lately, with Bronn boasting how filthy rich they are when the project closes. Bronn’s love of gold and money make him a very good mercenary; a smart and tenacious one. Sandor rolled the black SUV from the yard and drove back to Hot Pie’s. Sandor found the woman—Sansa Stark—still waiting for him. He couldn’t help to smile when she buckled her son at the back seat. To his surprise she hopped onto the passenger seat next to him, instead of sitting with her son at the back, but didn’t say a word. When Sansa asked how much she will need to pay him, Sandor teasingly said another cup of flat white would suffice and she laughed heartily. Sandor has not heard a woman laughed at his joke or with such eagerness in her laugh. _Did he joke? Or was he serious, that unwittingly he wants to see her again?_

Her son amazingly doesn’t look afraid of him too. Young kids and children usually stared at him shocked, and then ran to their parents. The kid—Rory, isn’t it his name?—laugh and sing with his mother. This is not the type of trip in Sandor’s mind; full of laughter and joy that made him feel like a bus driver in a school outing. But then, he was the one offering to drive them around, didn’t he?

The woman surprisingly has lovely voice, too, singing nursery songs. Sandor vaguely reminisced his own mother sang the same songs, so long time ago. The little boy at the back seat joined in singing in loud voice, his language still slurred. Sandor stole glances at Sansa, the woman’s head swayed to the rhythm of her song, her red hair tied to a bun above her head with few auburn strands loose from its bond. Sandor imagined how beautiful her hair would be if it let down framing her slender body. She wears blue, and it makes her sapphire eyes popped even more. Her eyes are the deepest blue he ever stared into. He silently cursed the thought. He makes a mental note to visit the nearest bar and grab some alcohol before he goes home later.

As promised, Sandor took them to a well-known local cafe, located at Old Anchor. He never enjoyed ice cream and to be honest he didn’t know which merchant provided one, but thank Gods he knew one place that offered it in the menu. The man who runs the place—a well-build man who used to serve in the army with him—Robar, welcomed him with broad smile, and give slight interest at Sansa and Rory trailing behind him.

They chose to sit outside the café which showed a view of the Old Anchor. The weather is warm enough even though it is a bit cloudy. Rory’s ice cream come and the boy shrieked in happiness. Sansa have her lemon tea, and Sandor another flat white.

“You are fond of flat white coffee.” Sansa observed. “People usually love lattes more.”

“And you are with your lemons.” He replied, smirking when Sansa blushed. He couldn’t help it. He likes making her blush—sending her red to the roots of her flaming hair. Sansa Stark is indeed a feast for the eyes—she is beautiful (even with those dark circles under her eyes) and soft spoken. She even sang like a goddamn angel. It irked him how could a sane man divorced such creature, but of course it is none of his business.

From where they were sitting there was a faint sound of laughter and happy cries of children. Rory turned his head towards the sound, looking interested.

“What’s that?” asked Sansa, intrigued, just when Robar emerged from his café to collect plates and glasses from the table vacated by the previous customer.

 “Oh, that voice? There is a small amusement park nearby. You guys should take a look there and have fun,” he winked.

“Mommy, I wanna go!”

Sansa turned to Sandor, “I will take Rory and see. You can wait here if you don’t want to come.”

“No, I will come with you.”

They paid their beverages and as Robar had said, the amusement park located not far—just few hundred meters at the northern shore of Old Anchor from his café. The park’s entrance consisted of two towers with immense face between them, and people entered through the gaping mouth made of fiberglass and foam. Children are running free and soon Rory joined them, while they go around the park. It turns out the amusement park is listed in the Heritage Register and hosted several rides along the wharf overlooking a wide river that flows into the Narrow Sea. Even though it wasn’t near noon yet, the wind began to blow fiercely when they walked on the pier. Rory doesn’t seem bothered by the wind and thank Gods the kid wearing a sweater that looks pretty warm.

 _Though his mother is on the opposite_ , Sandor thought. He glances at Sansa, who was standing next to him, arms crossed in front of her chest and her blue eyes watching Rory playing on the edge of the dock.

“Are you cold?” before she could answer, Sandor has taken off his jacket and handed it to Sansa.

“Thank you.” She gave him a baffled but appreciated look. “You are so kind.”

Sandor laughed at the last statement, “I am not, woman.”

“Yes, you are.” She enveloped herself under his jacket that hung too large on her shoulders. “Why are you so awful to yourself?”

“I am not awful, I am honest.” Sandor snorted. “If you know what I did, you won’t think I am a kind person.”

“And what was that?”

Sansa’s blue eyes pierced into his and for a second he found himself lost in it, so blue he felt like drowning in the Narrow Sea. Sandor blinked, and averted his eyes. He focused his eyes on Rory who now watching two clowns dancing near a carousel.

 _Killing people. Torturing people. Blown up a village with women and children in it,_ he wanted to say, but he bit his tongue.

“Are you warm now?” he asked back.

“Yes, thanks to you.” Her smile sent warmth to Sandor’s heart.

“Mommy, can we ride please?” Rory ran to Sansa, pointing at the carousel.

“Of course, darling.”

Sandor followed them from behind. He was surprised when Sansa bought him a ticket and pulled him into the queue that would ride the carousel, which was full with families and small children. Sandor instantly felt out of place. He has never been close to any small children before, physically and emotionally. When he got his facial scars, adult and children alike are avoiding him. Moreover, his condition as an only child and during childhood never had close friend made him restless surrounded by families that laughed happily as they boarded the ride. His chosen career path in military uniform also bars him to hang around children, as his fellow soldiers mostly are bachelors.

Families with children. Laughing ones, not crying or a hurt broken children. Sandor never experienced such a thing—he faintly remembered his long dead mother and that scumbag he used to called father. That man also long dead and forgotten. The “seats” of rows of wooden horses and other animals mounted on posts started to move up and down by the gears that simulate galloping, and Rory chose a black stallion. The boy insisted sitting on it despite Sansa’s pleas to switch to other shorter mounts, so his mother had to stand next to the wooden stallion and holding the boy so he wouldn’t fall.

Sandor took a seat on one of the wooden carriage in front of Rory’s stallion. The speakers—which usually play looped circus music—blaring in high volume to The Temptations’s huge hit from the 60s. He leaned and enjoyed the view before his eyes; the little boy inherited his mother’s auburn locks and now he laughed enthusiastically as his stallion bumped up and down to the song. The boy’s brown eyes—must be from the father—sparkled with glee. Sansa, still wearing his black jacket that at least four size bigger than hers, nervously balancing herself on the spinning carousel as she holding onto her son.

> _I've got sunshine on a cloudy day_  
>  _When it's cold outside I've got the month of May_  
>  _Well I guess you'd say,_  
>  _What can make me feel this way?_

Sandor stood and held Rory’s back, the boy screaming in joy pretending to be a knight or cowboy on his stallion. Rory turned to him and smiled—Sandor can’t remember when a child smiles happily to him.

“Here, let me.” Sandor said, gesturing he would take over holding the little boy. “Go, sit.”

> _I've got so much honey the bees envy me_  
>  _I've got a sweeter song than the birds in the trees_  
>  _Well I guess you'd say,_  
>  _What can make me feel this way?_

“Thank you.”

“You should stop chirping your courtesies, Miss Stark.”

She laughed, “I will need to buy you at least a dozen of flat whites after this,”

The song blared from the speakers, the carousel spinning faster and for a moment he forgets about his past, his scars, his anger… all fade away. He feels… _normal._ Whatever _normal_ is. Sandor Clegane—surrounded by perfect families at an amusement park, the perfect families he never had and even despised—held a little boy who smiled at him, and a woman who seem to _trust_ him—again, whatever _trust_ is. They looked like just another  _normal_ family spending Sunday noon at the park.

 “No,” Sandor rasped, “but one day I’ll have a song from you, whether you will it or no.”

The Stark woman still smiles, “And I will sing for you gladly.”

> _I don't need no money, fortune, or fame, ooh hey hey hey_  
>  _I've got all the riches baby one man can claim, oh yes I do_  
>  _I guess you'd say,_  
>  _What can make me feel this way?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i drew sandor's POV inspiration to The Temptation's My Girl song :)  
> used bits of the lyric as it is the song that plays when they ride the carousel.  
> Sandor's facial scar was described a bit different from Mr Martin's books, i know, since I used Joe Manganiello's Burke character from Rampage movie (of course i described it wider and more severe for sandor's). I also drew this Sandor's version from Mr Manganiello's character in that movie :D  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, thank you and have a nice day!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loras will end his bachelorhood (again), mostly due to Olenna's threatening Sansa,  
> and a peek inside Petyr Baelish's head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys  
> thank you for sticking in :D  
> Once again i want to state that i dont own anything, characters and all belong to Mr GRRM.  
> I used some quotes from the series, and also from the book in this story, and i hope you guys do enjoy this.  
> Sorry for any misspelling, or if my english is not so good, i'm learning to get better :)

**LORAS**

Hiding his handsome face behind a cocktail glass, Loras Tyrell tried to listen to the explanation given by the thin man at the end of the table. However, his mind repeatedly flew to something else, which obviously had nothing to do with the launch of hybrid corn. The cocktail glass contained whiskey with a squeeze of lemon juice reminding him of Sansa, and how much she loved lemon. Loras pursed his lips tighter when he tastes the sourness on the tip of his tongue. He lovingly remembered how he introduced her to the alcohol beverage—she was reluctant at first because she almost has zero tolerance on alcohol. But soon enough she grew to like it, often stating whiskey sour as the only alcoholic drink she could gulped. It also the drink she’d choose from the bar in every black-tie party they attended.

Martini is Loras’s usual choice and favorite, but lately Loras has been thinking more about Sansa, and about Rory too, and somehow sipping the sour cold drink ease his ache. The whiskey sour in his hand is his second glass that morning. Grams shot him a disapproving look from the other side of the meeting table, but said nothing.  The Tyrell matriarch sat stiffly between Margaery and their father, Mace Tyrell. The thin man kept talking about the corn. Loras sipped into his cocktail glass again.

“Leave us,” suddenly he heard Grams Olenna’s dry cold voice. The thin man looked surprised but nodded and hurriedly gathered his papers before leaving the meeting room, along with a number of employees who did not have the last name Tyrell.

 “What was it?” she snapped at her grand-son, once the meeting room was cleared.

“What do you mean, Grams?” Loras asked back.

“Two whiskeys in the morning? Are you out of your damn mind, young man?”

“Sour whiskey.” He corrected her. “It has lemon juice in it.”

When Olenna Tyrell didn’t say a word, Loras shrugged.

“Put the glass down,” Mace Tyrell told him in his monotone voice.

Loras cursed inwardly but obligated. He put down the glass, and stared at his father.

“He is tired.” He heard his sister, the ever dutiful and lovely Margaery Tyrell, chirped in. “Let him be.”

“Tired? Well I hope he grow tired of fucking Renly Baratheon or that slut Ros.” Olenna glared at Loras, a small smile never leaving her wrinkled face. Mace coughed. “Oh, shut up, Mace, stop acting like you didn’t know.” She snapped at her son who looked uncomfortable.

“It is time to stop playing around and make your house proud. You certainly never put interest in the family business, as far as I could tell.” She scoffed. “But you are the future of house Tyrell. It is time for you to wed again, with a decent and appropriate bride, of course.”

Three set of eyes casts on him as Loras frowned. Yesterday the media had raised news about him and Renly partying. A picture of him holding two girls in almost naked form plastered in all gossip media, both electronic and prints. A second picture of him and Renly kissing also made headlines. _Is sit because of it?_ Loras cursed. Loras is always the wild child, born with charm and privileges.   

“Renly is a good and appropriate candidate, but sadly he is a man,” Olenna continued, “So you better pick another Baratheon—a woman, certainly—or a Lannister. Married into such powerful and political houses will do our own house a great deal.”

Loras felt sick from the sour whiskey, and from hearing his grandmother.

House Tyrell of the Reach has been very wealthy as they always make it into Forbes 500, and their corporation’s stock is the highest ever in the past decades. However it was always Olenna Tyrell’s ambition to marry into political blood and dreams someday a Tyrell will rule Westeros. Their best chances are the Baratheons (who had been a breeding family of Presidents and senators) or the Lannisters (always put their men as high ranking officials in the government and first Ladies here and there, also once a President of Westeros). If the Targaryen family survived into the twenty first century, they would also make a good match in Olenna’s point of view. Unfortunately the last Targaryen President was assassinated before he impregnated his wife, with a clean shot to the head as he rode on an opened roof car.

“Incidentally the time is right; I’ve arranged a dinner with Myrcella Baratheon this evening.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Ooh, she is a very nice girl, Grams. I’ve met her on several occasions. Pretty and kind.” Margaery nodded her approval and so did Mr Tyrell.

“For the sake of your future and your house, I hope you do better this time. It is expected for you to end your bachelorhood soon.” Olenna said to her grand-son with finality in her voice.

“I think I at least have a say on this.” Loras gritted his teeth.

“House Baratheon is a proud house, and marrying into one will do a great deal to ours. Someday, with their political influence and our support, your son will become President. Or better, if you dive into politics after marrying Myrcella, we will make you into the senate and soon enough the Red Keep, as the President itself.”

Loras stood up so fast he knocked off the cocktail glass but the three Tyrells in front of did not even flinch as the golden yellow-ish liquid splattered onto the marble table.

“Loras—,” Margaery called to him but Loras raised his hand to stop her mid-sentence

“I have a son already, and I will not marry for political alliance. I will not marry this Baratheon woman, and you cannot make me.” He spat.

Olenna Tyrell looked upon her only grand-son, his handsome young face clouded by anger. She sighed, “You will, as your sister married for the gain of our house. It is expected of you, as your duty to make our house growing strong.”

When Loras glowered back at her, the old woman didn’t shy away and she continued, “You have a son, a Tyrell he is, but you let that Stark woman took him from our family. Consider him gone and make another legitimate heir, from a proper woman.”

“Sansa is my son’s mother; you cannot speak of her like that!”

“I can, and I will. You will meet Myrcella Baratheon this evening, or I will make our lawyers revoke that sole custody of your son and I promised you that won’t be pretty for Miss Stark.”

Loras bumped his fist on to the marble table. Without a word he exited the meeting room.

After he was gone, Olenna leaned on her chair, “A sword swallower through, and through.” She peeped at her son, who looked bemused at the turning of the event that morning.

 

Loras stormed off the meeting room, annoyed with the revelation that his grandmother had already prepared what she considered a suitable future. Loras realized he was not a saint, and obviously he was not a good enough man—he indulged in his privileges as a Tyrell, which meant giving him access to luxuries and other worldly pleasures the world can offer. At thirty, Loras never thought he’d expected to settle again so soon, especially not after his divorce, just two years ago.

Sansa is good girl, beautiful as she is kind, and when they met back then in the university he’d fell hard for her. Not surprisingly, she did, too. Even though the girl came from a wealthy family herself, but apparently the fact was not enough influence for his Grandmother to like his bride of choice. Olenna’s ambition was to enter politics with one day a Tyrell would sit in the Red Keep. Evidently they’d need to marry into some political families with Olenna’s choice to settle him to Myrcella Baratheon. At the moment, Myrcella’s Grandfather—Tywin Lannister—is the Vice President. Her uncle, Jaime Lannister, act as the National Defense Minister, the youngest in Westeros’s history. The facts were enough to make her an eligible socialite bachelorette, and the cherry of the cake is her father Robert Baratheon, is the current President of Westeros.

Loras himself knew it’d be a very good and profitable match both for their houses as each will get the benefits they want. Access to politics for house Tyrell, and huge financial support for house Baratheon. As a father he will be happy if Rory gets such a good significant other, but a romantic at heart he himself will not forbid if someday his son intends to marry because of love.

 _But what if his son turns out like him?_ He thought. _What if Rory come to him someday and told him he is in love with his best friend, as he does to Renly? Will he consent him, then, knowing he is the heir?_

He retreated to his office, shutting the door behind him and immersed himself in the leather sofa located near his desk. The view from the giant window in his office leads to the view of central park, with the blue tinge of Sunset Sea in the distance. Its blue reminds him of Sansa’s eyes, only hers is bluer. Her mother’s Tully blue.

Usually he likes to enjoy the beautiful view from his office window, located in the thirty fifth floor of the Tyrell Plaza, a glass of martini in his hand. This time his mind raged as fast as the debate in his heart. There are times when he wants to just get on the plane and catch up with Sansa and Rory, forgetting about all his family’s nonsense behind him. Other times—most of the time—he ached to be with Renly, to announce to the whole world that Renly belongs to him as does Loras to Renly.

Renly just shrugged when he expressed such intention, for he would always say to just do what his heart’s desire. Renly is a third born son—borne decades too late after his brother Robert and Stannis—and his older brothers are more than capable to secure their House. If only Loras could do just that, when his duty as a Tyrell always convicting him. It angers and saddened him just the same. Both of Loras and Renly have long known that their relationship might not continue, let alone be formalized. Sooner or later Renly will be forced to marry—fat chance with a girl chosen by his brothers (Mr and Mrs Baratheon long gone)—because he does not seem to be bringing any girl home anytime soon.

Loras’s love for Sansa was always different. He has had other women, yes, but it was fun while it lasted. Loras has not shied away from showing his swingers tendencies, and Renly has been cool with it. They never committed in a monogamous relationship anyway, and Renly has been approving Sansa when he told him about her. Only to Sansa—with her kindness and naivety—Loras can feel comfortable, almost the better side of himself most of the time. Although Renly is indeed his biggest weakness, but the time Loras spent with Sansa in the North was truly one of his best time. It did result in a marriage, though it did not last long once they moved to the south.

Loosening his silk tie, Loras closed his eyes and sank into the memories of her. Gods, he missed her. The kind of different longing like he missed Renly, but for sure it hurts just the same. Grams has her own way to reminded him how stupid he was to let Sansa has the sole custody of their son. He personally didn’t take any offense as his Grandmother is known as Queen of Thorns—but he is scared for Sansa, anxious for what the old Lady could do to get to his son.

Their arrangement for Rory’s custody has never been a difficult one—he always knew Rory will be just fine with his mother, as Loras never liked nor good in handling children. Sansa is a dotted and hands on mother and what else he could ask but to let her raise Rory?

Ros knocked at the door. Loras only peeked through his closed eyes when the red-head secretary comes in and resumed lying down. Ros put down some files and papers on his desk, hearing her muttering something and he heard a clank of ice fell into a glass and a liquid being poured.

“Here, Mr Tyrell.”

Loras opened his eyes, to a glass of martini offered by Ros.

He hesitated a moment, but took it anyway, murmuring his thanks.

“You looked beaten, Sir.” She said, observing her boss.

Loras peered at her between sip, “If your family forced you into marriage you doesn’t want, you’d looked beaten as me.”

Ros never lost her smile. “I understand, Sir. This is a bad timing to remind you about the dinner. But, it will be held at 7, and Mrs Tyrell expects you to come with your most polished manner, if I may add.”

When Loras didn’t answered, she continued, “I put up the latest documents about the details of product shipping from Reach. There were also a number of invitations and a list of callers this morning. One of them is Mr Baratheon, who seemed agitated he couldn’t reach you to your cell.” She winked. His cellphone has been turned off this morning, due to the meeting with his Grandmother, and he had not turned it back on since.

The moment Ros left his office; Loras took out his cellphone and dialed Renly’s number, conveniently saved on speed dial. Renly answered at first ring.

“Are you going to the dinner?” Renly asked without further ado.

Loras groaned. “Who told you?”

“Your lovely Grandmother, of course.” He teased. “She made sure I knew, sending this e-mail from her assistant and expects me to remind you on your manners.” He laughed. “So, are you going?”

“Grams expected a lot from her grandchildren, and I repaid her with endless suffering. Thank God we had Margaery. Do you think I should come?”

“Well of course you should! This is Myrcella Baratheon _and_ my own niece we’re talking about. Goddamnit you don’t come,” Renly laughed.

Gods, Loras loves his laugh. He could spend the rest of his days hearing him laugh.

“I wish you could come too.”

“Might be, but I’d be a dead man if the Queen of Thorns find out, so sadly I can’t.”

They let out a nervous laugh.

“I missed you,” Loras said suddenly. “I need to see you.”

“I can come by your place after your… _date_.”

“It is not a date. More like a meeting to agree on some things,”

“I suppose it is. Grams will not let you get away marrying some normal girl again.”

Loras groaned. “She threaten to sue Sansa’s sole custody, I cannot believe it!”

“Couldn’t expect more from that old Tyrell,”

Even over the phone Loras could picture the wry smile on Renly’s face. He really needs to see him, to be in his arms, inhaling his Tom Ford parfume he loves so much. He even bought a bottle of it, so he could smell his scent whwnever he missed Renly. Creamy, with sweet base of bitter almonds and coconut milk that delivers rich bouquet of vivid sensuality everytime Loras thought about him.

“I will come over your place around midnight, if that’s okay. Suppose you’d be finished with my niece. You be good to her.” Renly said.

“Of course. You have the keys.”

“I have.”

“I love you.”

“And I, more.”

Loras sighed and end the phone call. He spent his time staring at the documents Ros left behind, not even a word or two get into his head, whilst he anxiously waiting for the clock to strike 7. Loras threw his jacket over his shoulder and made way to the elevator as soon as Ros came to him into his room to announce its time for him to go.

The meeting is located at the Tyrell Plaza highest floor (so he is in no hurry), a high-class restaurant with three Michelin stars called the Golden Rose, for the memory of his late mother. The maître de welcomed him, took his jacket and brought him to a secluded table that has been prepared. For a moment he was tempted to order whiskey sour, but finally he settled for another glass of martini, with extra olives.

Once he sipped the beverage, his mind flew to the event he is about to live. Of course in his world such “date” is not exist; they will dine and drink, chat and get to know each other, but it is not Loras nor Myrcella’s decision to just call it a night or to resume the relationship (if there is any attraction). The decision will be made by the elders of the families—his Grandmother and that Tywin Lannister, the patriarch of the Lannister family who is Myrcella Baratheon’s Grandfather, and Robert Baratheon’s father-in-law who runs the country as a de facto leader. They both came to meet only to get to know each other; will they tolerate each other’s company? Will they led a comfortable marriage, and eventually bed companions, to breed heirs? Their meeting is just a modern formality, since he knew his Grandmother married into the Tyrell family (she was a Redwayne) only to meet her husband at the Sept when they exchanged vows.  For him to married Sansa and got away with it was just basically a miracle.

“Hello, you must be Loras.”

“Miss Baratheon,” Loras stood up when he saw a slim, long haired blonde approached him. Even at the distant he could whiff the smell of her expensive perfume, her long legs wrapped in Loubutin heels brushed his calf when they settled back in their seat.

“You did come.” She smiled.

“Should I not?” he replied, admiring her pretty face and high cheek bones. She is indeed very beautiful. Any man betrothed to her is a damn lucky man. Yet, Loras does not feel lucky. Her pretty face make a good consideration, though.

“Well, I heard you are enjoying bachelorhood.” Myrcella’s blonde curls fell onto her bare shoulders, beautifully coupled with her crimson red dress. “I hope our families’ arrangement don’t hurt your fun that much.”

“It is our duty, isn’t it?” he tried to be polite but failed miserably as his angry tone betrayed him. Loras sipped his martini again to hide his grim face. The maître de appeared before Myrcella could give any response, and for a minute they scanned the menu before each settling with their choice of dinner.

“How is your son?” she asked casually, playing with her wine glass.

“Why’d you ask that?”

“As if no one ever ask you such question?”

“No.” he added quickly to mend his angry reply, “He is fine, I guess, haven’t seen him for awhile. He is with his mother.”

They sipped their drinks in silence before Loras cleared his throat. “So we are going to marry?”

“I guess we are, yes.” Myrcella replied casually.

“I can’t promise I can be a good husband. I think you should know what you’re getting yourself into.”

For a moment his betrothed fell silent, until she carefully brush Loras’s hand and give it a squeeze.

“I mean, I don’t hit women and children, of course, so no worries on that area. But I am not a… _faithful_ …husband.” Loras cleared his throat. “I will give you everything a husband should do, but not my heart.”

“Well, I suppose I can live with that.” Myrcella chuckled.

“You do?”

“As long as we make them an heir, they won’t care less.” She shrugged nonchalantly. “And I guess if you do run for the senate, and in time the Red Keep itself—then I think whatever you do in our marriage, everyone will still be pleased.”

This time Loras laughed. “Are you joking? I cannot be a good husband let alone a President.”

But Myrcella didn’t laugh. The young woman looked tensed, “Let me break it for you, Mr Tyrell. I heard that you family will support us in the upcoming election. As a token of the deal, we are to marry. Then in time, you will run into politics yourself, in your rightful name, with the main goal to rule Westeros. My Grandfather won’t let me marry for less. And suppose is your Grandmother.”

“How kind of him,” he teased. “Are you sure your Grandfather and my Grandmother are not related?”

Myrcella smiled. “Furthermore, I will let you live your life, as you will let me live mine after we do produce an heir, and maybe a spare. I have a boyfriend.”

“Do I know the lucky guy?”

“Its Trystan Martell.”

That got Loras’s attention.

“The media and my family do not know. Just like you, and Renly, though Tristan and I are more… discreet.” She smiled sadly. “Of course you have heard about Lannister-Baratheons and Martells clash? We have not been a friendly house to each other since ever.” She rolled her green eyes.

It is known that the two (or three, considering the stag aligned with the lions) great houses do not like each other. Decades ago when the last Targaryen President married a Martell, he had been assassinated with a shot in the head—an assassination rumored ordered by Tytos Lannister, at the moment was Westeros’ Vice President. He later had sworn in as President, replacing Rhaegar upon his assassination. Rhaegar’s widow—Elia Martell—charged with high treason of leaking information to terrorist as later “investigations” revealed she had affair with the man who allegedly shot the President’s head. Elia was held for trial, stripped from her First Lady’s privileges and health insurance, her fragile health soon weaken during her detention. Elia died in detention before a trial could be conducted.

The Martells were outraged. Oberyn Martell’s press release on the death of his sisters still quoted everywhere, and the Martells loves to remind about how the Lannisters slandered and killed Elia, even though she was a loyal wife to Rhaegar. The families have never been in the same room for more than five minutes, without a fight.

“A Baratheon-Lannister and a Martell,” Loras stroked his clean shaven shin. “Well that’s fucked up.”

“You and me, both. Sleeping with my uncle? That’s cardinal sin and so fucked up.”

“I don’t know you are a religious person.” Loras scoffed.

“I don’t.”

They both sipped their respective drinks in silence, judging each other. Waiters came with their appetizers, and Myrcella digs into her Prosciutto and Figs.

“I love your uncle, you know?” Loras said softly.

“I know.” She whispered back, candle flame lit her green eyes, staring at Loras with sadness. “I don’t blame him, and I don’t blame you either. We don’t get to choose who we love, that’s what my uncle Jaime once said.”

 

\--

**PETYR**

Petyr Baelish is a reserved man who loves discreetness and fine stuff. At his mid-fifties, he maintains his appearance with healthy diet because he knew he does not has much time to linger around the gym. He has a pointed chin beard and threads of silver in his hair which remain mostly black, with sharp features face and slender body. Linen is always his to-go shirt every day (rich wool if the day was cold), paired with dark trouser and suede black shoes. Even though he could afford chauffer, secretaries or just personal assistant and other manservants, he prefers to do his work by his own, saves for two or three handmaids to do the cleaning for him.

Petyr starts his day at 6 AM having breakfast in his study room that connects directly to his bedchamber. He’d then bathe and reading three different newspapers, his letters and e-mails, before emerging from his solar no later than 8 AM, the time when his handmaids starts the cleaning. Due to his work load, he chooses to sleep in different room with his wife, Lysa.

Lysa Arryn is his first marriage and he is Lysa’s second husband after the late Jon Arryn. A descendant from Braavosi mercenary, Petyr’s late father befriended Hoster Tully who later fostered him in Riverlands when he was fifteen. It was there that he met Catelyn, Lysa, and Edmure who were the children of old Mr Tully, who was the Riverland’s governor and patriarch one of the affluent families in Westeros.

Petyr hated it every time Lysa talk about how they met during his time living in his wife’s hometown. It was not a warmhearted memory for him, as he remembered only two events during his stay; Edmure calling him _Littlefinger_ as a reference to his short stature and his family’s lands on the smallest of the Fingers, and—he cringed when the memory came to him—how he lost a duel against Brandon fucking Stark for Catelyn’s hand on marriage. He still kept a photograph of her, forever smiling under the sky as blue as the girl’s eyes, safely stored in his locked drawer in his study room. Each time he misses her, Petyr would stared at the picture recalling her laugh and her scent, and how beautiful Catelyn’s auburn hair glowed under the summer sun.

 _It is a shame Lysa has the wrong shade of red_ , he always lamented. Whenever he visit Lysa and spent his night doing his husbandly duties, he has to recall Catelyn memories to be able to make him satisfied. Thank the Gods even in the dark with slightly yellowish light, Lysa’s hair can look like the red he’s longing for. And when the longing culminated in contact where Lysa moaned hard and swayed underneath him so violently rocking her hips into his thrusts, Petyr had to bit his lip to stop himself from shouting Catelyn’s name in his ejaculation. The woman is some years dead now, and he couldn’t stop thinking about her, that will be his curse.

Once, he thought if he married Lysa he might get rid of his desire for Catelyn. He can’t, obviously, and craved even more. The Gods have cruel joke on him as they make him infatuated with Catelyn Tully, but it is Lysa—her younger sister—who is obsessed with him. Even after her marriage to the old Jon Arryn, Lysa remained in love with Petyr Baelish.

It was because of her—with her new power and influence as Mrs Arryn of the Vale—that saw him appointed as custom officer at Gulltown, a position he excelled at. Petyr finally dig his way out from the Fingers—climbing in social status and wealth and claimed the late Jon Arryn’s confidence by becoming his trusted council running the Arryn aircraft factory. During his youth he had desired Catelyn Tully, and when he lost her first to Brandon and second to Eddard Stark before finally he lost her forever to death, he shifted his desire for power and wealth. Both in his hands, but… he feels empty, unsatisfied _… somehow._

He’d visited Catelyn in Winterfell as much as his busy scheduled allowed it and the then young girl—Catelyn’s oldest daughter—always has special place in his heart, because of her hair, her eyes… the very image of her mother when they were young. He always told her she was his favorite niece, brought her beautiful gifts fitting for princess, showered her with affection, whispered in her ears how beautiful she’d become and how precious she was—until the girl come of age and decided to elope with Loras Tyrell. Catelyn and Eddard Stark died in a violent car crash not long after the girl eloped, and Petyr repressed his desire once again.

_Might be he will never be a able to get a hold on his biggest dream._

That, until he read the news that Loras Tyrell had finalized his divorce. The whole Westeros welcomed Loras into bachelorhood, and it amazed Petyr how the girl managed to keep low profile married to such an eligible bachelor such as the Tyrell heir. In fact, Sansa Stark was rarely exposed by paparazzi, thanks to the bodyguards and other shield provided by the Tyrells. Not even in their divorce—which took place without any drama—the public has the glimpse of her photograph (Petyr hated this the most), the only surviving photo of her relationship with the Tyrell heir was a picture from their wedding day. Petyr saw it from the morning paper, plastered gloriously under a big title that swallowed nearly half the newspaper’s main page. Other than that, none, to his dismay. After the divorce she even disappeared off the radar. Petyr praise the girl for her discreet about her private life.

The minute his private investigators came back with the girl’s address (a very modest apartment for a Tyrell’s widow) Petyr flew to the Reach and saw the red he longed for; hidden and matured—even being a struggling single parent does not reduce even the slightest beauty in her. The desire he thought he had managed to hold at bay now appeared again, even far stronger than before. He knew about the prenuptial agreement, and he knew the girl’s post-divorce situation. His plan was to bring the girl back within his grasp, and what else work perfectly if she is not being in this very Arryn-Baelish manor, working for Lysa? And no—she is no longer a girl anymore, but blossomed into womanhood so fine he nearly wept. A woman grown.

Darkness has fallen as he drove his grey Aston Martin Rapide passed the manor gates and into the front porch. Today was not so eventful, save for the morning ride which he dropped Sansa downtown. As soon as he got back to the manor Lysa was waiting for him impatiently for their little stroll, fretting about Lothor should drive Sansa instead of him, or she ought to hire more chauffeur for the household so Petyr shouldn’t be bothered to drive around by himself. Later when they were having lunch at a posh establishment in Gulltown, Lysa had been clinging to him as if her life depended on it. A man might flatter with Lysa’s affection, and she can be _very_ affectionate to him even nowadays Petyr felt nothing but burden, yet he is a man of patience.

He got out of his car and saw Vardis standing in front of the main door. The old butler had never taken a liking in him, especially since the death of Jon Arryn and he married his widow.

“Good evening, Ma’am.” Vardis greeted in his low voice, holding the oak door open. “Mr Baelish.”

“Vardis,” he nodded, wanted to ask the butler whether Sansa is home but he knew better not to mention other woman in front of Lysa, even if she is family. Petyr walked Lysa to her bedroom, planted light kiss on her cheek.

“Did you have fun today, my love?” he whispered.

“Oh Petyr, of course,” Lysa purred back. “Come with me.”

Petyr let himself pulled into her bedroom, which has been lit by candles and he could smell jasmine and ylang-ylang from a small ceramic bowl near the bed. Of course Lysa intends to end the night with him in bed. She kissed him on his mouth, her lips dry of her expensive lipstick.

“I want you inside me now,” she hissed between their kiss.

Petyr nuzzled at the crook of her neck and she giggled at the touch of his beard. Petyr laid Lysa on the bed, caressing the crown of her head. _Wrong shade of red,_ he thought. He helped her undress and after Lysa lay bare on the bed, Petyr couldn’t help but wonder how it feels to have Catelyn as he had her sister…  Sometimes he allowed himself imagined how Eddard Stark would took Cat, did she like it rough, or romantic, gently and full with whisperings love submissions?

“I still can give you a son or two,” she whispered, pulling her husband’s trousers and smallclothes, stroking at his manhood. “Brothers and sisters for sweet Robin…”

Petyr switched the image of Catelyn naked on his bed, to Sansa.

_How did Loras do it? Does she like to be taken from behind? Did she like to taste his cum?_

As always with such thoughts, he’d grow hard, and jealous.

“Yes, I’d like that, my love.”

“Oooh, Petyr…” Lysa purred as he pinched her nipples, suckling at the breast. He thrust into her—almost without warning—and Lysa squealed in surprised. “Oh, yes, Petyr,” she purred at his ear, grabbing the flesh beneath his linen shirt. He was still clothed, only his trousers and smallclothes dropped onto his ankles.

Lysa rocked her hips wildly. “I missed you, my love! Yes, harder, Petyr, please!”  

Lysa tried to pull him closer but he stopped her hand, instead he flipped her, so now she faced the bed’s headboard, fucking her from behind. Rather rough, he jerks his wife’s hair; it breaks from her hairnet and rolled onto her back.

 _Wrong shade of red_.

Petyr slammed into her repeatly and Lysa picked up the pace. The woman whimpered at his thrusts, her neck stretched towards his chest, but Lysa’s face was covered by the dim of the room. Petyr pulled her hair to his nose, inhaling the scent. His right hand kneading at Lysa’s breast, his left at her hair—fingers entangled in its locks. He slammed his cock as hard as he can, over and over again.

“Petyr, Petyr…” she started to pant, her head swaying left and right but he managed to grip tight to her hair.

_Wrong shade of red._

_Sansa._

_Sansa._

He could feel his release getting closer. Lysa whimpered everytime he pushed himself into her.

He imagined how wet his good niece on his bed; her breasts swaying as he thrusts into her, as her sweet moans and the scent of her sex filling the dim bedchamber. _Oh, is she tight?_ He groaned at the thought. Petyr desperately slamming into his wife, grabbing and pulling her hair—Lysa screaming his name. _Gods, he would like to hear Sansa screaming his name as he took her._

He is so close to cum.

 _Sansa opened her legs wide for him, wet and begging him to fuck her—oh, yes, he’d love to see it, to hear her screaming his name while riding his cock…my precious, sweet Sansa…_ Petyr pulled Lysa’s hair and groaned.

“Petyr! Petyr! Oh, Petyr! I love your cock inside me!”

_Yes, Sansa._

He squeezed her butt cheek and slaps it. “Do you like that?” _Sansa,_ he almost let her name slipped.

“ _Yes_! Yes, Petyr!” Lysa moaned.

He spanked her again, seeing the skin reddened and raw. He remembered vividly how Sansa’s lips moved when the girl said his name. He remembered how she used to put her on his lap, watching her sucking on lemon candies when she was younger, and he’d concentrate so hard to prevent his cock from hardening… Petyr imagined it was her screaming his name, he make-believe it was her cunt that closing around his pulsating cock.  

Holding Lysa’s hips, Petyr bit on Lysa’s shoulder to muffle his climax from screaming his niece’s name. Lysa quivered as she is feeling his release, both panting hard. Petyr rolled out of her as soon as his cock stopped squirting his seed. Lysa turned around, her face flushed red.

“That was amazing, my love. You are very demanding tonight.” She sighed.

“Did I?” Petyr pecked his wife’s cheek and get out of the bed. From the corner of his eye he knew Lysa is watching him dressed. Good thing she didn’t tore at his shirt so it was easier to get dressed and back to his solar.

“You will make me sore the next morning,” she giggled.

“I’m glad I still do,” he smiled back.

“Do you have to leave?” she sighed, not bothering to put on some cloth, his seed leaked from her womanhood.

“I have work to do.” He answered shortly.

She looked in disdain but said nothing further. Petyr is known as a hardworking man and this reputation is well known enough to his wife. He makes a quiet exit from Lysa’s room and swiftly walks towards his own solar, at the opposite end of the hall.

His room was dark; save the only light was from the lights outside his window. Petyr locked himself inside and moved in the gloom towards his desk to turn on his computer. Looking at his Audemars Piguet wrist watch, he is still on time for the meeting. The screen beeped accepting his password and he goes straight into the chat room.

The other party has already there.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Petyr smiled into his screen, lightly brushing his hair with his fingers to make it more presentable.

“Good evening, Mr Baelish.”

“Thank you for your time. Shall we begin?”

“Of course.” The man never talked more than necessary and Petyr loved it.

“I will have another shipment. Old Anchor to Yunkai, not stopping. Three containers measuring two meters by three, each.”  Petyr said.

“When do you want us to leave?”

“A fortnight from now. Also you will need more men; I don’t want anything compromising my… _shipment._ ”

“My men are the best mercenary in Westeros.”

“I don’t doubt that, for the money I paid, Sir.” Petyr smiled. “I will notify you when the packages are ready.”

The man nodded and Petyr’s screen turned black. Petyr leaned on his leather chair, fingers linked and brows furrowed. He remained like that for few minutes, before getting up from the chair, his cellphone is in hand. He stood by the windowsill, clicking and logged into an app in his phone. The screen load for a moment, then a picture of a bedroom is visible. The camera leads to a large bed on the right side of the room, with baby cot on the other side. The room was dark, but the camera he installed has night vision. Petyr clicked again, this time the screen switched into a bathroom. Still dark, and empty.

 _Where are you, sweet niece?_ He said to himself.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe you guys an explanation;  
> So around April my laptop broke down for few weeks...  
> When I got it back I lost three chapters worth of this fic and i was devastated Q_Q  
> (lesson learnt; i switched to google drive now)  
> That time, I couldn't re-write what was lost, though i already knew where is this fic going.  
> I relocate my mourning, my pain, to write other fics (In the Wolf's Den (robb stark/myrcella baratheon) and Longing Rusted Seventeen (bucky barnes/sharon carter)) before finally, my heartache subsided and I can take a look again to this fic (without that heavy feelings in your chest) and starting to write again Q_Q  
> And I want to say Thank you SO MUCH for sticking in, to read this new chapter.
> 
> Seven blessings to y'all  
> xxx

**SANSA**

They just finished their dessert when Rory became fussy. Knowing her son was overtired Sansa call it a night and Sandor insisted he drove them back to the manor. The tall hulking man that met them this morning with his curt manner was getting nicer after they spent a few hours at the park, making Sansa eliminates any worries that Sandor doesn't like children. 

He seemed to pay enough attention to Rory, did not mind watching over him when she needs to excuse herself to the restroom, even offered to replace Sansa holding the boy when she seemed to be getting tired. Rory wanted to spend half of their walk being carried by his mother, making Sansa’s arms begin to cramp.

“If you’re not afraid I’ll run away with your child, of course,” he darkly jokes, to her horrified face. “I’m sorry,” he added quickly, looking sheepish. “I just wanted to offer a little help because you seem exhausted. Is he heavy?”

Somehow Rory didn't mind being held by Sandor, perhaps thanks to his arms being stronger and more stable than hers.

It was barely passed 7 PM when they drove back to the manor. People just come out from their homes to enjoy the night yet here they were, on the way back home. Rory has fallen asleep in the backseat when they hit the highway.

As always Sandor is a man of few words. He rarely talks unless she asked him anything, or if he had to offer her something. If she keeps the question coming he’d stubbornly cocked his head and teased her. 

 _Quit pecking, Little bird_ , he’d said, _I’m tired of you peeping at me_ . Or his favorite: _are you interrogating me, woman?_ Sansa rolled her eyes at those remarks. She only intends to be friendly and her guts say the man needs more friendly people in his life. He’s too gentle to be so brooding.

And Sandor refused her to pay again when they stopped in the front porch.

“I’ve been wasting your time almost all day long,” Sansa insisted. 

“No, you are not,” Sandor said softly, shaking his head. He opened the back door and carefully help unbuckled Rory, easily lifting the boy from the seat and into his mother’s arms. “I want to help you carry him inside, but I don’t think your family would be so please.”

“Why so?”

“Well, first I am a stranger. Two,” he gestured to his face, “...I look like a bad guy, which could be true. Three—,”

“Oh, stop it,” Sansa scoffed. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Mr. Clegane. Rory and I had a very great time today since forever, thanks to you.”

In the dim porch, Sansa’s heart skips a beat when she saw Sandor’s smile. A faint one, and gone as fast as it came, but a smile nevertheless. He opened his mouth and Sansa expected a mocking reply, but before he could utter a word his cell phone rings. Sandor produced a black beaten flip cell phone from his pocket, a different model with the one he used for Uber. 

“Clegane,” He said. A moment later mumbling “yeah” and “hmm” to his caller.

“Please wait.” Sansa mouthed to him and he nodded, raising an eyebrow but didn’t say a word, still listening to his caller. 

Sansa quickly went into the manor. She walked as fast as she could while carrying Rory who was still asleep in her arms. Her bedroom was dark but she found the cot easily enough, changed Rory’s clothes and pulled off his socks before tucking him under the blanket. The boy was so exhausted he does not even stir in his sleep. Sansa admiringly stared at his son and noticed how the boy had grown so much. In a few weeks or sooner the cot won’t fit him comfortably anymore, and she’d need to find a real bed or ask aunt Lysa for a connecting room. 

Or maybe she should find herself and Rory another accommodation outside her aunt’s…

Sighing, Sansa closed her bedroom door silently behind her and went back to Sandor. The man has finished his phone call. Now he was leaning to his car, hands in his jeans pocket.

“Hey,” he said when Sansa approached him, “Sorry, it was a friend.”

“Oh she okay?” Sansa asked casually. 

“It’s a he, and yeah, he’s fine. Rory still asleep?”

“Thank Goodness, he is.” Sansa smiled.

“You should go rest, too.”

“Sandor, I really want to thank you for today. You are so nice to Rory too. I will feel so bad if you refuse any payment for your troubles.”

“I don’t want your money,” he said, “It really is okay. I too have a great time.”

“Then I will be indebted to you, again,” 

“Maybe I want you to,” he teased. When she didn’t reply, he turned to his car and opened the door. “Good night.”

Sansa did not know what prompted her to do so, but seeing the man will disappear from her sight made her uneasy. So without thinking she just held the door with her hand, stopping the man from climbing in. 

Sandor turned to her, waiting for her to say something.

“Thank you,” was the only words she could mutter.

They looked at each other and Sansa couldn’t help but think, _when did the last time she gazed so deeply into a man?_

His silver-grey eyes reminded her so much of her Father’s, a set of eyes she will forever miss, and how those grey eyes of Eddard Stark always looked lovingly at her. Even when she said she’d move south to marry Loras, her Father always looked with so much love for her. She missed him so much. 

Sandor cleared his throat and broke their eye contact.

“Off you go now, Little bird.” He said gruffly. “Fly away.” 

“I hope we can meet again, Mr. Clegane.”

“I will turn on my Drive Uber apps, just in case.” he chuckled.

Before Sansa could respond, Sandor climbed in and turned on the car engine. The man looked at her from behind the car window, smiled slightly before backing up his black SUV from the manor’s yard. She did not pretend when she said she hoped to see Sandor again. 

She does not know what enticed her to him, the man obviously does not like to talk much, and he always teasing her. But he is kind, Sansa knew it, and gentle in his own way. Weird. 

A man like Sandor usually scares her and she would not think twice about avoiding the type of man with a look like him. Even worse, Sansa had to admit she was a bit cruel to some men in her past who she considered not comely enough. Growing up pretty and having people around her to remind her of the fact once got to her head—Sansa admit it in shame. Those men never had the nerve to tease her in anyway Sandor did. 

 _But oh whatever, it does not seem like she attracted to him, no way_ , Sansa shrugged the thoughts. _Rory is my life now. Besides, who wants to think about that weird mysterious man when I should start looking for a bigger bed for Rory?_

Sansa closed the oak door and walked towards her bedroom. As she reached her door, a shadow moved from a dark corner of the hall, startled her. 

“I didn’t see you there.” she gasped.

Petyr Baelish stood idly beside a marble statue. He is smiling, but as always his smile never reached the corner of his eyes.

“You’re home so late, Sansa.”

“Rory had so much fun, we forget the time, Uncle.”

“Didn’t I ask you to call me by my name?”

“I’m sorry, I am not supposed to—,”

“Call me by my name, Sansa.” Petyr took a step closer, his smile never leaving his face.

“Aunt Lysa will not be happy if she hears.” she tried to laugh him off the idea, but Petyr shook his head.

“Ah, Lysa, my dear wife. I’d risk everything to get what I want and I want you to just call me ‘ _Petyr’_ , but alright,” he shrugged and put his hand on her shoulders. “Have you eaten? I should tell Vardis to prepare something.”

“It’s fine, I have.”

“Who drives you home?”

“I—I took an Uber.”

Petyr looked at her long enough to make Sansa’s uncomfortable but he remained standing where he was. Thankfully, he let go of her shoulders.

“Uber,” he repeated, softly. 

“Yes.”

It is weird that Sansa got this feeling inside her, how she had spent almost half a year in her Aunt’s manor and by each passing time her Uncle’s presence gives her uneasy feelings. 

Petyr used to visit them in Winterfell when her parents were still alive—she did remember him calling her his favorite niece. It made Arya resentful every time Petyr favored Sansa over her. Nevertheless, when they hit teenage, Arya said she was grateful that it was Sansa who Petyr would call upon and showered with hugs and kisses, as Arya said Petyr was a creep. _He is not,_ Sansa said to his defense, to Arya and to herself. _You are just jealous because he loves me, because I am his favorite and you are not._  

Now she hates it every time Petyr’s fingers brushed onto hers whenever she handed him anything. His touch would linger longer than she liked. She hates it even more when he placed his hand on her back, rubbing, the position of his hand too intimate. But could it be that she is just too sensitive, maybe she shouldn’t think so badly of someone who was kind to her and her family… Petyr did help her get out of the Reach and offered her a good job and accommodation when she needed it. She should thank him, not thinking so badly about him. 

_I am his favorite niece, right?_

_He does love to cuddle me even when I was little. I used to sit on his lap while he stroked my hair, joking with Mother. He will not mean you any harm. A little touch won’t hurt. He only wants to show his love._

_Just like a Father figure… right?_

Petyr reached out to touch a strand of her hair and tucked it behind her ear. His hand lingered again, this time to rub her left cheek. Sansa’s mind flew to Sandor, who when they were together never try to touch her. 

 _Why am I thinking about him now?_ she pondered.

_I hate Petyr’s touches._

_No, stop thinking so negative, Sansa. Stop it._

_Stop it now._

_Petyr is a good man. He is your Uncle and a dear family friend._

“Maybe we can arrange Lothor to drive you around, what do you think? Until I can find someone I trust enough to become your chauffeur.” Petyr said, his index finger traced her jaw to slowly moving towards her chin and stopped there, right under her bottom lip.

 “You’re most kind, Uncle Petyr. But… I am in no need of any chauffeur.”

“I don’t like it you keep riding with some random men. It is not safe, Sansa.”

“Aunt Lysa needs me in the morning. Please excuse me, Uncle. I am very thankful for your concern, but I’m fine.”

“ _Petyr_.” he reminded her.

“Petyr. Of course.” Sansa obliged, forcing herself to let out a small smile.

“Kiss your uncle goodnight.”

This part Sansa hates the most. She hates him giving her order to kiss him and she hates giving it to him. She is not a child anymore. 

Quickly she planted a chaste kiss on Petyr’s cheek and before he speak another word, she opened her bedroom door and rushed inside. Even from behind the door she could feel his presence. 

Only when she finally heard his faint steps walking away Sansa breathe a sigh of relief. She felt guilty of thinking so badly about Petyr, on hating his touch and his gazes; she wanted to be able to please her uncle. Yet she felt increasingly uncomfortable being near the man. 

Nearly every night when Rory’s asleep, she spends her time texting her siblings. 

The first time Robb called her she realized how much she missed hearing his eldest brother’s voice. Reconnecting with her siblings made her longed for her hometown and she think about it more often now. Perhaps she could ask for some days off to visit Winterfell. Aunt Lysa won’t mind losing her for a few days. The last time she visited Winterfell was when her parents died some years ago. Back then when she was living in the Reach with Loras, she had almost no time to connect with her family. Her life with Loras was always full of travelling, taking care of his needs (she didn’t want the help of any assistant and tried to be a good wife to him) and various public events that must be attended.

Of all the topics discussed with her siblings, Sansa never told them about Petyr. Once, she did consider of telling Robb, or Jon, when she talked to them over the phone… but she was afraid of their reactions. 

Will her older brothers scold her and tell her to get back to Winterfell? 

Will they be worried? 

The hot-headed Robb would be. Both of them have been fretting when Loras divorced her, with Robb threatening to come to the Reach to talk some senses to Loras—so no, her disliking Petyr would only make her two older brothers’ concerned. Bran and Rickon are just teenagers, she can not tell them such things. Rickon was even too busy to reply her texts, only answering her phone calls with blaring music behind him that she couldn’t hear a word. A laughing Robb told her Rickon was into rock band at the moment, playing guitar like a mad man. And Arya, oh Arya, Sansa misses her only sister so much. She was tempted to tell Arya, but no… she could picture Arya rolling her eyes and say, “See, Sansa, I told you he’s a creep.”

The next morning she woke up exhausted with a nauseous feeling that someone is watching her. She shook Petyr’s cold eyes from her head and busied herself with her routine; bathing Rory and getting the child and herself ready for the day. 

As usual she tied her long auburn hair into a ponytail, donning her usual white buttoned shirt and black skirt. She wears nude colored stockings and high heels. Before exiting her chamber she swiped some concealer, sunscreen and a little lipstick so she doesn’t look too sleep-deprived. 

Rory’s daycare is located three blocks away from the manor, in an old but clean and neat looking building owned by Petyr Baelish. The grounds consist of several shops all owned or rented from her wealthy uncle. A pretty, middle aged woman greeted them as they entered the establishment. Her name is Chataya and she is the principal in Rory’s daycare. They chatted a bit until it is time for Sansa to walk back to the manor to start her day. 

Today she came to a very good mood Lysa, as her aunt always would every time she got to spent her day with her husband. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Lysa said as Sansa put her breakfast tray in front of her, “that I should send Robin to Citadel to further his studies. Yohn Royce has agreed to help oversee Robin, even happily escorting him to Old Town. Petyr said it’d be good for Robin’s experience and education.”

“Citadel is a very good university, aunt Lysa.” Sansa replied, hiding her surprise at the notion. Everyone knows how Lysa hates to be separated from her only son Robin. Since a little boy, Robin was home schooled, never to be sent either to public or private institution.

“I know, and I hesitated because Citadel is in Old Town. It is so far away to send my sweet Robin! Though Petyr finally convinced me.”

“This is Uncle Petyr’s idea?”

Lysa smiled, “Yes, he always has the brightest idea, don’t you think? He is the one who suggests Yohn should mentor and oversee Robin while in Old Town. The old Royce couldn’t be happier. He always loves Robin like his own.”

 _Or Petyr wants to get rid of Mr Royce,_ Sansa thought as she poured tea into a cup and mixed it with honey before serving it to Lysa. 

Yohn Royce is a well known Arryn loyalist, Jon Arryn’s vice Governor and at the moment is the acting Governor before the Vale hold an election. Rumour has it he never liked Petyr Baelish.

“Oh, is that moon tea? I forgot to tell you that no need for moon tea anymore.” Lysa beamed, “Petyr and I are trying to conceive. He finally agreed!”

“That is good news, aunt Lysa. I will tell Mord to stop brewing.”

“Yes, yes, do tell. And make me an appointment with Maester Wolkan tomorrow.”

“Right away.”

Sansa’s job is not much that she couldn’t handle; as a matter of fact, the workload was getting mundane once she get used to it. 

There are two kinds of typical days for Sansa; one, whenever her aunt is not happy about something or just being restless. The trigger is usually how her husband treated her—Sansa dreaded these days most. Lysa could send her more than thrice to find Petyr. Two, if her aunt is in a good mood, which will be a slow and uneventful day. These are the days when Sansa could relax and even enjoyed lunch with Mya and other staff in the kitchen, talking and gossiping, or just sit by the garden with tea and lemon cakes (Mord the cook makes delicious lemon cakes).

Petyr spends most of his time in the aircraft factory, if not he will shut himself up in his study room that doubles as his bedroom. He never let anyone seen him uninvited, yet he always let her in every time she came to do her aunt’s bidding. They would talk a bit about her day, then Sansa would ask what is he doing, his plans for the evening and tomorrow as per Lysa’s request. On every occasion she’d profusely apologized for the inconvenience of her presence, snooping around for Lysa. 

Petyr always brushed it off.

“I enjoyed your company,” he would reply every time, “I begin to regret assimilating you to my wife. Perhaps I should snatch you for myself.” 

Petyr’s plan to send Robin to Old Town soon become the main reason the household became busier. Within a fortnight Lysa purchased a townhouse in Old Town and instructed some of the staff to go with Robin to attend for his needs during the study. It saddened Sansa when both Mya and Lothor’s name appeared on the list, though it was not too surprising. Mya literally helped raising Robin and act as his tutor. Lothor has been in the family’s service so long he becomes one of Lysa’s trusted staff. 

Sansa took care of the detailed preparations needed for Robin—flights, the townhouse, a new car, books, down to every detail she could think of for her cousin’s wellbeing. Despite in his teen Robin is not a healthy child. That is the sole reason her Aunt home-schooled the boy, making Petyr changing Lysa’s mind about sending her son to real school is one of a kind.

Sansa understands why Lysa speaks so highly of her husband; Petyr came from a humble family who then raised so high into the Governor’s office, a man who had the gift of rubbing few dollars together and breed a hundred. Along with his talent of sweet-talking and convincing people, Petyr Baelish’s rise had been arrow-swift. Seeing how Lysa really loves him it is no wonder with little talk she was convinced to send Robin to another state. 

 _Not that it was a bad thing, though,_ Sansa pondered. _Robin could use a good push to see the world if he is expected to lead the Vale someday._

Other time she thought about Loras, especially when she caught glimpse of him from the news.

Oddly enough, her ex-husband has seen gracing the news more than gossip channels nowadays. No partying or any jet-set lifestyle coverage; everything Loras used to made headlines of now changed to how he attended high-level conferences, red carpet appearances holding a beautiful blonde young woman (who happened to be the First Daughter of the Seven United Kingdoms), and several organizations and charities that he now seemed patronizing.

The young woman is seen more than twice in a row now—something usually Loras avoided—but of course dating the President’s daughter will not make him ditch the woman as easily as he did to other women. He might have his way with men and women but his loyalty lay to one person only, and Sansa knew whom. One of the many reasons their marriage fell apart, that Loras loved that person more than he loved her.

“Such a beautiful couple,” Mya sighed admiringly at Loras and his new girlfriend’s photo at the news.

Indeed they are. Them openly gracing the media meant one thing only: Loras’s Grandmother approving the match. The old matriarch might even the one who make it happened, too. 

Within her mundane work sometimes she thinks of Sandor, too.

Sansa found herself staring at her cell phone with the faint hope that every text or incoming calls were from him. She wondered if she should contact Sandor first, but she is doubtful about what she should say. They have not talked since the Sunday they spent together almost a month ago. 

Whenever she was downtown she’d ask Lothor to stop by at Hot Pie’s, hoping she’d find Sandor there. Once she tried to order his coffee—a cup of flat white—just to taste what it’s like. The man seemed to be fond of it. Lothor rolled his eyes every time she lingered in the deli, craning her neck to see if every tall man entered through its door was Sandor. 

“Have you ever met someone, you don’t really know him, but you feel comfortable and safe with him? And that you want to get to know him better?”

Mya looked up from her magazine and gave her a suspicious look. “Who the hell are you talking about, did you meet someone?”

“I was just asking. Answer it.”

“Perhaps, with Lothor,” Mya answered, smirking. “Why?”

“I said I was just asking,” she laughed, sipping her tea.

She checks her Uber apps more frequently too, despite during the day she has Lothor to drive her around running Lysa’s errands. The Uber drivers who took her orders were never Sandor, so she always canceled (it ruined her rating in the apps, but she doesn't care).

By the end of the day, she was questioning herself of why she wanted to see Sandor again. It feels like he radiates gravity that pulled her in... She felt like she saw something in his eyes, anger, and perhaps regrets… She wanted to know what caused the scars on his face.  

And aren’t those scars also on his neck and arms? 

What kind of life has he been through? 

What makes it to the current Sandor?

The day they spent with Rory was amazing and she was grateful Sandor was part of that day. He seemed to need it; he was nice and respectful, never making them uncomfortable. 

So a month after their last meeting, Sansa texted him. Days passed and Sandor did not reply to the text.

She made peace with herself and wherever Sandor is, she wished him safe and well.

When finally Rory began to protest about the cot being too small for him to sleep comfortably, Sansa decided to leave the Arryn-Baelish manor. With the money she saved she and Rory could rent somewhere, finding privacy for the two of them. She started looking for small apartments, flicking through newspaper ads and talking to some realtors. It is not an easy job as most of the apartments or houses in her price range are too far from the manor. She’d need to sort the transportation for her to go back and forth.

One of the realtors, a neat looking man with blonde hair who always smiling and joking, asked her to a date and after a few weeks of pursuing (and Mya consistently urging her to go) she finally said yes to a lunch date. He was always smiling and joking but Sansa begins to _hate_ his childish grins. No matter how his good looks used to flutters her heart in some lifetime ago, she couldn’t help but notice how the man would ignore Rory whenever they went out to view estates. 

She had to take Rory on their second date because no one could babysit him and the man throws a fit at how they should not bring a kid to fancy dinner. They never went to the third date. Rory is her priority. She refused to see other men Mya tried to throw in her way or going out again as Mya suggested. 

Then she found the perfect flat, only a few blocks away from the Arryn-Baelish manor. The owner who also lives downstairs, Mr. and Mrs. Shett, turned out to be an old friend of the late Jon Arryn and happily welcomed her and Rory to rent the second floor of their building. Just like the surrounding complex, the building is old but strong and clean. The floor was an old-fashioned parquet of homely brown, the walls newly painted ivory white. With two bedrooms and a corner by the large windowsill (she was already planning to put pillows and coffee tables in that corner), it was perfect. 

When Sansa finally signed the lease agreement, for the first time in many years she was happy.


End file.
